To Win Her Heart
by TheSapphireSky
Summary: It would take something tragic for Sherlock to realize his mistake, to discover that he indeed had a heart and that it was his own wife. And to realize what lengths he would go to in order to win her back. Victorian AU
1. The Beginning

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective for Scotland Yard, was married. When approached by his father two years prior and told of the marriage arrangement, the raven-haired man had sneered at the idea of 'settling down and starting a family,' of being domesticated.

In his youth, several decades prior, a young woman had managed to ensnare his fancy; beautiful, cunning, and a mind to rival his own. But Irene Adler had chosen a more prominent and gainful match. There was no heartbreak, for The Woman, as he called her, did not hold his heart. Sherlock boasted his lack of heart oft enough that many believed it to be true, himself included.

When he met his betrothed, he could not have felt more disgusted. A small, wisp of a woman stood before him in an atrocious gown of pink and white frills. Her plain brown hair was braided across the crown of her head in an attempt to mimic the latest fashion from abroad. On her, it merely made her already child-like features blatantly obvious. Her lips were thin and chapped, as though she often chewed them (a terrible habit for a young woman in society, she clearly was characteristically anxious).

Indeed, there was nothing remarkable about Molly Hooper. But the arrangement was set in legal stone. So Sherlock set forth to distance himself from his wife (oh, how he detested the word). For almost two years, he avoided the woman in their home and masked his scorn with a small smile in polite company.

He didn't notice the smiles she once bestowed upon him fade or that the light in her eyes was replaced by a steel glint, a shield to protect her heart. He only saw a societal necessity that often distracted him from his cases and experiments. As she became more ingrained in his home and in his life, he stepped up his efforts to drive her emotionally away in the hopes that she would be angered and avoid him as he attempted to avoid her.

It would take something tragic for him to realize his mistake, to discover that he indeed had a heart. And to realize what lengths he would go to in order to win it back.


	2. Ere the Sun Rises

Molly Holmes stood as tall as her diminutive form allowed, the many folds of her gown concealed her desperately shaking legs. Her husband sat at his desk in the study, his intriguing profile outlined by the moonlight. Not for the first time, Molly's breath caught in awe. For two years, she had called this man husband in name only. And since the moment he looked in her eyes and vowed before God to become one with her, he'd held her heart. But he gave her nothing of himself; no love, no devotion, no kindness. Day after day, she hoped for more, but dared not ask.

Until tonight. Gathering the remnants of her dignity and pride, she approached Sherlock, where he was hunched over his desk, scribbling furiously. Molly had guessed it was a summary of one of his cases or experiments (she often read them when he departed the manor and was intrigued by his observations and tests). She coughed to announce her presence, whereupon Sherlock sighed resignedly and abandoned his notes. Molly smiled slightly at him and called upon the courage she'd been trying to find for months.

'Mister Holmes,' she straightened her shoulders, 'I wish for us to consummate our marriage.'

In one breath, he looked startled.

In the next, he laughed. Her heart stopped.

* * *

Sherlock saw his opportunity to push her away, to anger her and perhaps obtain a week's absence from her presence. He laughed at her, standing up to tower over her, his elegant nose wrinkled in derision. 'What possible physical use could you be to me? As the second-born son, I do not need to produce an heir. You are merely an ornament, and a plain one at that, a mindless drone attached to me because of the accursed society we live in, wherein a man cannot remain a bachelor without coming under severe scrutiny. You are a hindrance to my work and I have no use for you beyond societal appearances.' With a cruel twist of his lips, he slammed the final jab home, 'I find my pleasure with those of greater beauty and intelligence.'

And with a great sweep of his cloak, he whirled from the room.

For all his deductions and observations, he failed to notice that his intention to anger his wife had failed. Her face had paled with every sharp jab of his foul tongue, her heart stuttered, and tears filled her eyes. But his final admission was the harshest of all. The life finally fled from her once expressive eyes and, were she not already leaning heavily against the armchair, she would have collapsed. Indeed, as soon as Sherlock's steps faded, her shaking legs broke from the strain and Molly Holmes found herself in a huddle on the floor. Tears flowed freely, while she heaved soundless sobs, a hand pressed over her mouth.

_Foolish woman, of course he would never love you. _A cruel voice echoed in her mind. _What do you have to give to him? Your mind? He doesn't want it. Your body? He scorns it. Your love? He doesn't need it._

Slowly numbness spread its icy tendrils around her heart. Her wracking sobs slowed and eventually stopped. Where once there was devastation was now resignation.

_If this is your truth, Sherlock Holmes, then your wife I shall be no more._

* * *

Dawn broke over Bakersfield Manor, spreading a warm and bright hand over the rolling greenery. As usual, Sherlock had neglected his bed in favor of experimenting in the lab, far from what was sure to be a fuming Molly. He grinned, confident in his assumptions that in her anger at his speech she would avoid him for at least a week, hopefully more. _Is that what you truly want? _A voice in his head that sounded surprisingly (and annoyingly) like John Watson asked. He scowled. He had no use for a wife and she'd become a distraction from his work, taking up valuable experimenting time with her frivolous chatter. No, he was sure he'd made the right decision.

So why did he feel an unsettling sense of foreboding?

Suddenly, the door to his laboratory burst open, his butler George sweating profusely and looking as though he were about to pass out.

'Master Sherlock,' he gasped, 'the Lady Holmes has disappeared. No one has seen her since last evening!'

Sherlock stilled.

'Master!' George shook Sherlock's shoulder roughly.

Sherlock snapped from his daze and growled, 'She has likely set off on a walk, George. No reason for such displays of theatrics.'

George huffed and handed Sherlock a note. 'She left this on her pillow. And her horse is missing.' The note had been opened, the corners creased by a worried hand, most likely the chambermaid.

Sherlock stared at the thrice-folded parchment paper, his heart beginning to pound. He took it from the butler and quickly opened it. Her handwriting crisp and neat.

_Sherlock,_

_Please forgive me. It was not my intention to be a burden and these past two years I have tried in earnest to not hinder your work. I understand now that I have failed. Your detective work astounds me and your proficiency in the sciences is a wonder. You have helped so many people. I would never forgive myself for being an obstacle in your life. _

_You have made it clear that I am nothing more than a necessity forced upon you by society. We are merely husband and wife in name. A separation will not be devastating to your standing and you will soon find yourself back in the favor of the ton. _

_I hope you shall be able to recoup any setbacks I have caused during our marriage. _

_Molly_

Barefoot, he flew from the lab, a panting George on his heels. 'Send for Doctor Watson!' he bellowed at the worried staff gathered in the foyer. 'And bring around my horse! George, shoes!' Scattering, the servants followed their master's instructions, concerned about the safety of their beloved Lady Molly.

Sherlock burst into Molly's bedroom. His sharp eyes immediately took in the untouched bed, the open wardrobe, and the missing satchel that normally hung from her armchair. _Where did she go? _Several handkerchiefs lay crumpled by the window seat. His heart plunged as he realized they were the recipients of her tears. He'd made her cry. _You bloody idiot. _The John voice yelled. _If you'd gotten to know her, you'd have known she wasn't like Irene. Anger doesn't come easily to her. Molly is made of humility and forgiveness. The sodding note! You tore her down, destroyed her, and she ultimately apologized to YOU! _Sherlock swore loudly and ran from the room. Bennett had brought his saddled horse around. Shoes and hat in place, Sherlock mounted the stallion and in a flurry of kicks and orders, flew down the gravel pathway toward the rising Sun.


	3. To Err is Human

'You bloody fool!' A resounding smack accompanied Doctor John Watson's fist as it collided with Sherlock's prominent cheekbone. 'You had to open your bloody mouth and destroy that girl!'

'John!' Sherlock yelled, mindless of the people passing by on the street where they stood. 'Bludgeon me later, but please, come with me!'

The doctor bit his tongue, holding back the verbal barrage of insults he desperately wanted to heap upon his addle-patted companion. Several moments passed, then he nodded. 'Fine.' He spat, then stepped nose to nose with the taller man and, poking him in the chest, he snarled, 'But so help me, if you force her to do anything she does not want to do, I will cut off every appendage you favor.'

Sherlock swallowed and nodded solemnly, knowing the former army physician fully intended to follow through on that threat if needed.

'Now, she took her horse, so that means she intended to go a significant distance,' John noted as he shrugged into his overcoat.

'Obviously, John. In fact, she is currently at her father's estate.'

John sputtered from atop his mount, 'If you already know where she is, then what do you need me for?'

The detective silently swung up on his horse and adjusted the harness before quietly admitting, 'For your support.' In the next instant, Sherlock was cantering down the lane toward the Hooper's estate.

John watched his friend's ram-rod straight back before urging his own horse to follow. _Well, what do you know? Sherlock has feelings. For Molly._

* * *

Sherlock stormed through the doors of the Hooper manor, sending the faithful butler holding the door staggering from the force. 'Molly!' he bellowed.

A panting John Watson jogged inside, having been delayed by grabbing the abandoned reins of Sherlock's horse when the man had dismounted suddenly. Shoving the care of both horses onto a nearby servant, John rushed inside to see Sherlock taking the stairs two at a time, his loud baritone voice echoing his wife's name. Maids and servants poked their heads out of doorways, eyes wide and curious.

'What in Heaven's name…?' Matthias Hooper entered the front hall and frowned at the sight of his son-in-law wreaking havoc in his home. 'Sherlock Holmes, what Devil is in your trousers?'

In an instant, Sherlock was down the stairs, John sure his feet never touched a step. He stalked toward the older man and towered over him, 'I want my wife back.' He snarled.

Matthias frowned, 'My daughter has not been to visit since the turn of the season. What reason would she have to be here now?'

The consulting detective narrowed his eyes at the man and determined he was being truthful. Running a shaking hand through his unkempt hair, Sherlock huffed in frustration. Matthias' frown burrowed deeper, 'Has something happened to my daughter?'

Before Sherlock could respond, John interjected, 'Merely a miscommunication, Mister Hooper. Has Molly written to you recently, perhaps we could clear up the confusion if we discover where she intends to go.'

Glancing between the Doctor and the Detective, Matthias anxiously nodded. 'She has never failed to write a letter each week. I keep them in my desk.' He led them to the far corner of the house, into a grand study. Sliding a key from his vest pocket, the old man unlocked the bottom drawer of his large desk. Sherlock stood behind him and was surprised to see a substantial pile of folded letters, the same parchment that she had written her farewell letter upon. Matthias withdrew a handful, the most recent, Sherlock deduced. Mutely, Sherlock took the letters from his father-in-law and started poring over them (there must be something amidst the drivel that might indicate where she has gone).

However, Sherlock was stunned into immobility. His eyes widened as he read line after line of his wife's letters. Instead of mindless gossip and self-pity (which he fully expected, given his treatment of her), he found that she had been relaying the results of his own experiments and cases, interwoven with her own thoughts and observations. An intelligent mind lay behind those unassuming brown eyes and unremarkable face.

Sherlock's mouth had fallen open in surprise, to the amusement of Doctor Watson. His joviality was short-lived as he read the letters after Sherlock and discovered he, too, had underestimated Lady Holmes.

When he regained his ability to speak, Sherlock turned to Watson and spoke with quiet humility, 'It appears, my good Doctor, I have been in error.'

* * *

Matthias Hooper was no fool. Behind a ready smile and twinkling eyes lay a shrewd mind. He knew that the match between his daughter and the youngest Holmes was a risk. During the courtship, he had hoped that Sherlock would discover that Molly was an intelligent woman, plain compared to the made-up beauties that flocked to socials, but ethereal in her generosity of spirit. Molly was smitten at once, of course. Sherlock Holmes was a dashing bachelor with an irregularly attractive appearance and a brilliant mind. Matthias was unsurprised when he recognized the signs of love his daughter held for the young detective.

When it became clear after an entire year of marriage that her feelings were in no manner reciprocated, Matthias watched her shrink into herself. She held herself high in society, but when she believed no one to be watching, he saw how sadness wrapped itself around her in a clenching embrace. Her eyes no longer crinkled in joy, her smile lost the brilliance it held before, becoming like moonlight, a mere reflection of what it was once.

And it broke his heart.

Guilt weighed on him, knowing that he forced her into a joyless marriage in order to keep his land. The Holmes family held the deed of the estate and, in return for giving Molly's hand to Sherlock, they permitted him to remain. Now, if Molly had left her husband, Matthias only hoped she had the good sense to remain safe and write when she was able, his land be damned.

He watched as Sherlock and Doctor Watson perused the letters Molly had sent. He smiled at the remembrance of her obvious pride in her husband's career. From the expression on Sherlock's face, the man had had no inkling that his wife was not a simpering idiot plucked from the ton.

Sherlock broke the silence that had descended, 'It appears, my good Doctor, I have been in error.'

Matthias smiled.

_Perhaps_, he thought, _this has not all been in vain._


	4. To the Call of Friendship

'My dear Molly, you must eat something.'

Molly smiled gently at her host, Lady Charlotte Lestrade. 'Thank you, but truly, I am not hungry.'

The gracious blonde simply nodded, though her furrowed brow betrayed her worry. Molly sighed and acquiesced, taking a biscuit from the tray on the table between them.

'Tell me, Molly,' Charlotte began, 'is there anything I can do? You were an irreplaceable support during my separation from Gregory, I wish to be the same for you.'

Molly blinked back the sudden sting of tears and turned her head to look out the window over the bustling London street. The sides of her lips trembled and she swallowed hard. 'Thank you, Charlotte. But I am afraid there is nothing worth salvaging from my sham of a marriage. I merely ask for time to transition back into an independent life.'

Molly didn't see the older woman move and flinched when the settee shifted as Charlotte sat beside her. She bravely fought the tears that blurred her vision, but as soon as Charlotte embraced her, Molly could no longer hold in her grief. She sobbed into her friend's gown, her heart breaking for the life she no longer hoped for and the children she would never have. Charlotte felt her own heart break for the young woman and her tears mingled with Molly's.

* * *

'Lestrade!' Everyone within hearing distance winced at the tone and volume of Sherlock's demanding shout. The Scotland Yard Inspector grimaced and turned to acknowledge his colleague (if that was an apt description for the consulting detective who shoved his way into every crime scene with or without permission). Sherlock wore a thunderous expression and the masses parted before him as though he were Moses parting the Red Sea, a stumbling John Watson in his wake.

'Holmes. Doctor Watson.' Lestrade nodded to both in greeting. 'Unfortunately, I have no cases for you today, and am not inclined to find one. I promised my wife I'd be home on time for dinner.'

Sherlock scowled, 'I have a matter of utmost importance to discuss with you, Graham. I am sure, after your wife's numerous illicit activities in the past, she will forgive you this one breach of promise.'

Lestrade clenched his jaw and breathed deeply, telling himself that socking the man in the face would not help matters. Although, it looked like someone already had, judging by the mottled swelling of his cheekbone. _I'm sorry I missed that!_

Doctor Watson mumbled, 'Not good, Sherlock. Don't insult the man from whom you need assistance.'

Sherlock nodded solemnly as Lestrade's eyes widened. 'You need my help?' _There's a first time for everything._

'Not exactly, Gregory.' Lestrade's eyebrows rose at the correct address of his name. Sherlock ignored the look and continued, 'My wife is missing. She did not, as I assumed, retreat to her father's estate. I have questioned the train station manager and that of the coach, neither of which sold her a fare. Thus she is either remaining with someone in London, which limits me to thousands of possible hiding places, or she has escaped the city on horseback. The latter is unlikely, as she knows few people outside London and did not bring enough currency to sustain a trip of that length. Thus, I am inclined to believe she remains in the city. However, I am afraid I do not know of any acquaintances she has, so I need your assistance.'

Lestrade blinked, stunned by the onslaught of information Holmes spit out in one breath. When he managed to catch up, he barely managed to contain his worry, 'Wa-wait. Molly is missing? Since when?'

Sherlock froze and stared at the Inspector. In two steps, he crowded the silver-haired man and growled menacingly, 'Since when have you called my wife by her Christian name?'

John pulled Sherlock away, 'I think the only thing that matters right now, Sherlock, is that Molly is missing and Inspector Lestrade can help.'

'Sherlock,' Lestrade began, 'Molly is a friend and when my wife and I were separated, she-'

'Indeed!' Sherlock interrupted loudly, halting several passerby in their tracks. 'And does your wife know that while she was warming the sheets of numerous men, you were cavorting with _my_ wife?'

'Sherlock, stop!' John yelled, trying desperately to stop the spectacle that was unfolding on a public street.

Lestrade glowered at the taller man and grasped him by the cravat. 'Listen to me, you heartless bastard. Molly is the only reason my wife and I reconciled. She was our friend, not my lover. She made my wife see sense and gave me the strength to forgive Charlotte her indiscretions. I'll not have you say one foul word against her!'

In disgust, Lestrade roughly pushed Sherlock aside and stalked down the street, leaving the detective to his increasingly shameful thoughts.

_What have I done?_

* * *

Lestrade quietly entered his home, still struggling with his anger toward Holmes. He hung his hat and coat in the foyer and made to find his wife. Not without his merits as an Inspector, he noticed the unfamiliar cloak thrown across the stairway banister and raised his eyebrows at the small canvas bag dropped haphazardly at the foot of the stairs. _Molly._

Within seconds of his deductions, Charlotte slipped into the front hall and greeted him with a longing kiss. She opened her mouth to tell him of their visitor, but he beat her to it.

'Molly Holmes is here, having left that bas-,' Charlotte frowned and he winked at her, 'Having left Sherlock and is currently undecided as to where to go.'

Charlotte nodded sadly, but felt a rush of pride at her observant husband. She kissed him once more to show how his brilliant mind affected her. 'She's in the back parlor and is not in a good way.'

Lestrade sighed, 'Holmes accosted me today trying to track her down.'

'Really?' Charlotte was surprised. After his dismissive and frankly ghastly treatment of Molly, she assumed he would have been relieved to be rid of her. Molly had not told her the specifics, but apparently whatever occurred the previous evening was enough to break her seemingly endless hope for a successful marriage.

Lestrade pulled her close and rested his chin against her soft hair as he told her what happened between himself and Sherlock that afternoon. He relished the feeling of his wife in his arms, knowing she was now his alone. The accusations Holmes hurled at him had brought back the feelings of inadequacy and hurt and he knew he couldn't dwell on it. He breathed in Charlotte's scent, praising God that his marriage hadn't failed.

'I'm not sure what madness overtook him, but if I did not know better, I'd say he had feelings for Molly,' Charlotte inhaled suddenly at her husband's words. 'Worry, anxiousness, possessiveness, jealousy. They were everything I felt when I thought I had lost you.'

His wife leaned back to look at him. Her eyes wide in disbelief, she watched as a sad smile graced Gregory's lined features, 'The machine seems to have found his heart. And it may be too late to win it back.'


	5. The Fondness of a Brother

For all her husband's skills in observations, Molly managed to remain hidden at the Lestrade's for three days, ignorant of Sherlock's hunt for her. Her hosts had decided to remain silent regarding the detective's increasing frustration and possible burgeoning feelings for his wife. Something monumental had happened to cause Molly to flee and until she confided in them about it or officially filed for separation, Charlotte and Gregory would refrain from interfering.

The morning of the third day found Molly elbows deep in baking, her plaited hair dusted with flour. Charlotte had left to accompany her husband to brunch at a fellow Inspector's home and Molly found herself missing the, up until that day, constant presence of her friend. _Well, you insisted you would be fine and for her to go enjoy her visit. _Molly sighed and wiped a strand of hair behind her ear. She really didn't mind the solitude, _I'll be alone the rest of my life anyway, something I need to become accustomed to. _With her thoughts becoming increasingly melancholic, she failed to hear the brisk knock at the front door.

As she began the process of clearing away the mess she'd created, she became aware of a presence behind her. She whirled in surprise and gasped as she came face to face with a tall, intimidating figure. _I suppose I should have seen this coming._

She sighed and wiped her hands on her apron. Gesturing to the nearby table, she said resignedly, 'I will not insult your intelligence by asking why you have come, brother.'

Mycroft Holmes prided himself on being ever more observant than his younger brother, but as he gazed upon the woman bustling about making tea, he suddenly had an urge to slap the ignorant fool-of-a-detective upside the head. His sister-in-law looked utterly wretched. Dark circles marred her small features, indicating that she had slept less than five hours since she had fled Bakersfield three days prior. Her dress was simple, but hung on her slight frame and she was clearly just on the edge of an unhealthy weight.

A crack sounded as his jaw clenched. _She hasn't been eating well for months. _

He thought back to the last time he had seen her, six months before, during a family visit. She had seemed withdrawn, but nothing about her figure indicated there was a problem. Mycroft knew his brother was not interested in the normal pleasures of marriage and, at the time, assumed the young wife had come to accept that. But as he watched her bony, shaking hands pour hot water into the teacups, he couldn't stop himself. He reached out and took the kettle from her hands and set it aside.

'Tell me,' Mycroft spoke plainly, not unkindly.

Molly folded her hands in front of her and focused her gaze upon them. 'There is nothing to tell that you have not already deduced, Mycroft.'

The older gentleman quirked an eyebrow at her crisp tone. He leaned back, his hand fiddling with the always-present umbrella at his side. 'If you believe that my talents in observation have permitted me the gift of omnipresence, then you are indeed mistaken. Although I admit I have seen the effects of my younger brother's foolish and harsh treatment of you, I am ignorant of his specific actions. I am not here to take sides. I simply wish to understand why you are hiding from him.'

'I am not hiding from him,' Molly frowned and finally raised her eyes to his.

'So you are unaware that at this moment, my brother is turning the whole of London apart in order to find you? It seems that Gregory Lestrade has been tantamount in preventing him from finding you here, but I assure you, that will not last much longer.'

Molly blinked in surprise. _He's looking for me? _A faint ember in her battered heart flickered to life, but the frigid voice of logic obliterated it. _Of course, it's a mystery. Had I not left in such dramatics, he'd not have been intrigued enough to follow. _

She schooled her briefly surprised features into a cool mask of indifference. 'Indeed? Perhaps he should be putting his intellect to better use than to search for someone who does not desire to be followed.'

'And why, dear sister, is that? What has finally made you run after more than two years with the man?' Mycroft leaned forward, his stark blue eyes, so like her husband's in shrewdness, pierced her.

She swallowed thickly and her gaze flicked to the wall behind him, 'I have always known our marriage would not be normal. Perhaps I finally realized that I would rather be alone than in a loveless marriage.'

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. Several moments passed in silence. Suddenly, he stiffened in realization, his hand clutching his umbrella tightly. 'You love him.'

Molly smiled sadly as she turned her weary gaze back to him. 'It is not enough.' She clenched her hands together tightly and, lowering her eyes, mumbled, 'I am not enough.'

The pieces fell into place with that one, heartbroken sentence. Sherlock had, in what Mycroft assumed was a horrifically misguided attempt to push his wife physically away, inadvertently shattered her heart by indicating that she was neither beautiful nor intelligent enough to capture his interest.

Suddenly a large hand was under her chin, lifting her face. Mycroft lowered his hand to grasp one of hers. In an uncharacteristic gesture of brotherly affection, he gently squeezed her hand and leaned over to kiss her cheek.

'Then he is a fool.'


	6. The Wanderings of the Mind

The Sun was high on the third day when Mycroft was admitted to Bakersfield Manor. The butler led him to the drawing room where the politician witnessed a restless Sherlock and a resigned Doctor Watson.

'Lord Mycroft Holmes to see you, sir,' the butler announced his arrival then retreated back into the hallway, shutting the door behind him.

Aside from a quirk of his eyebrow, Sherlock did not acknowledge the arrival of his brother, remaining supine upon the settee, his hands raised to his chin in a prayer-like pose. But Mycroft knew better. His brother was thinking, perhaps wandering the corridors of that blasted Mind Palace he often frequented.

Doctor Watson wearily stood and bowed slightly in greeting. 'Mycroft.'

The posh gentlemen returned the gesture and the two settled into the armchairs opposite Sherlock.

Tapping the tip of his faithful umbrella against the floor, Mycroft addressed John, 'I understand you have been accompanying my brother on a taxing quest in search of a missing woman.'

Sherlock opened his eyes in order to blatantly roll them at Mycroft's less-than-subtle tactics. Before John could respond, Sherlock spat out a retort, 'Yes, my wife is missing. There is no need to feign ignorance about it, blood. Unless you have something important to discuss, such as where she is, I suggest you take your high-handed manners and shove them-'

'Sherlock!'

With a huff at the Doctor's interruption, Sherlock returned to his thinking pose, a definite pout on his lips.

Startled by his brother's quick and blatant animosity, Mycroft chose to ignore it and turned to Watson. 'Has there been any progress in finding Molly?'

With a sigh, Watson shook his head. 'Unfortunately, every place we have looked has led nowhere. None of her so-called acquaintances have seen her since the last social and neither her father nor her own letters written to him indicated where she might have gone.'

'Perhaps it is for the best,' Mycroft deadpanned. A scowl formed on Sherlock's face. _Interesting. _'After all, it was a marriage of convenience for both her family and ours. Now that the period of uncertainty has passed, Sherlock may revert back to bachelorhood and she will no longer be a hindrance.'

'For God's sake, Mycroft, that is my wife you are referring to!' Sherlock jumped up from his seat in agitation and scowled down at his brother.

Mycroft blinked slowly. 'Perhaps. But she is your wife in name only. Forgive me, brother mine, but I assumed that, since you have not altered that distinction, you were expecting something of this nature to occur. Frankly, I expected it sooner, but it appears your wife was not observant to your attempts to push her away. A dull, vacant goldfish like the rest of-'

In an instant, an enraged Sherlock lunged at the smirking man, his hand grasping the slender throat of his older brother and cutting off his words. A look of complete disgust and rage contorted his features.

'Never,' he hissed through clenched teeth, 'speak of my _wife _like that again.'

_Interesting reaction, brother mine. It seems you have discovered your heart. And it only took breaking it to find that it is, in fact, your own wife._

Watson was suddenly between them, peeling Sherlock's fingers from their ironclad grip around Mycroft's throat. With an air of a politician, Mycroft gently smoothed his rumpled cravat and cleared his throat. He rose and made his way to the door, turning his back on a red-faced Sherlock and wide-eyed Watson. When his hand was on the door handle, he turned his head slightly and chose his words carefully.

'You have underestimated her for far too long, brother mine. I hope you are prepared to accept consequences.'

* * *

As the sun began to set several hours later, Sherlock had once again retreated into his Mind Palace, while Watson was contemplating returning to his own home.

Suddenly the silence was broken by Sherlock's mumble. Watson looked up from his reading and saw that the detective's eyes were open and there was a line between his brows. His frown deepened as he mumbled louder, 'Molly.'

'What about her,' Watson asked. 'Did you remember something?'

Sherlock lowered his hands from his chin as realization dawned. 'He called her 'Molly'. And referred to her as a friend of both himself and his wife.'

'Who? Inspector Lestrade?' John asked.

In a sudden whirl of clothing, Sherlock sat upright and twisted to face his friend. 'He lied to me.'

'Sherlock, Molly would never-'

Sherlock waved a hand in dismissal. 'No, no, no. I'm certain nothing indelicate happened between Molly and the Inspector. But he lied about her whereabouts. He knows. He knows where Molly is.' Sherlock's voice grew louder and more confident with every word. 'He's been hiding her from me! And sending me all over the whole of bloody London on wild goose chases!'

By now the detective was shouting and pacing in anger. 'George!' The faithful butler answered immediately to his master's bellow, his worry over the absent Lady Holmes keeping him nearby.

Sherlock whipped off his dressing gown and threw it carelessly over his shoulder as he strode toward the door. 'Bring me my coat and have Bennett bring our horses around.'

Doctor Watson made to follow, grumbling as he removed himself from underneath Sherlock's discarded dressing gown. 'Sherlock, just a-'

'Do hurry up, John,' Sherlock huffed as he shoved his arms into his heavy coat. With a flick of his collar, he snarled, 'I have a few choice words to relay to the dear Inspector before I retrieve my wife.'

Watson hurriedly followed. As the two men rode toward town, both were withdrawn in their thoughts.

_At last, _thought one, _this ridiculous game will end and life shall resume._

The other, rather morose, couldn't help worrying. _There is no outcome of this that will end well for anyone involved._


	7. A Past Best Forgotten

Two Years Ago

_'Margaret Hooper,' with an elegant curtsy, the brown-haired woman followed the ingrained breeding forced upon all young women in polite society as she introduced herself to the tall man standing before her. His dark black hair curved around the nape of his neck and unkempt curls hung over his forehead in blatant disregard of the latest fashion trend. His tailored suit fit his physique flawlessly and Molly found herself flushing at the dashing figure he cut._

_The man, her now betrothed, rolled his eyes and turned his profile to the older couple watching the interaction. 'You have forced me to accept a spinster as my future bride. Her clothes are worn and show evidence of tears and subsequent repair, thus she does not come from money. She is plain and does not carry herself with the posture of a lady, so neither does she come from fame. If no simpleton has claimed her up to this point, there must be something inherently wrong with her for her to remain unwed at the age of 27.' His harsh gaze flicked back to her, taking in her horrified features and trembling lips. 'Tell me, are you barren? Or perhaps suffering from a mental malady?'_

_Several moments of dismayed silence passed as Molly fought to gain control of her emotions. With great effort, the young woman stiffened her trembling lip and, with a curt bow towards the elders in the room, fixed a murderous glare upon her future husband and left the parlor._

_When she had closed the solid oak door behind her, she ran. She was unfamiliar with the Holmes' estate, but quickly found a door leading outside, a sprawling garden before her tear-filled eyes. With a great sob, she rushed along the path, passing several working servants along the way. Too upset to be embarrassed, she found a small bench hidden among the taller bushes and allowed the tears to fall in earnest. _Is this to be my life? Married to such a horrible man? _Her thoughts turned increasingly oppressive and she began to have trouble breathing._

_Suddenly a strong hand grasped her clenched fists and she gasped in surprise, looking up to see the blurry face of her future father-in-law kneeling before her._

_'__Take a deep breath,' he instructed kindly, but firmly. 'In through your nose, out through the mouth.'_

_Molly struggled to obey, but managed to take several shaky breaths. When the panic passed, she took his offered handkerchief. Her tears stopped and she wiped away the evidence of her weakness, though her eyes were still puffy and red._

_Siger Holmes remained kneeling before her, holding her trembling hands and consoling her with his compassionate presence. 'Forgive us, child. Our Sherlock is as sharp-tongued as the Devil when he sets his mind to it. And, I'm sorry to say, he has not taken to this arrangement with the grace you have shown.'_

_Molly nodded, not trusting herself to speak without either bursting into wholly unladylike sobs._

_Although her father lived on the Holmes' land, Molly had not met the family, the sons being sent away for schooling before she could remember and the elder couple traveled abroad during that time. Now, the Holmes' desired to marry off their youngest son, an obstinate bachelor who, apparently, did not manage to snag a wife during his tenure as a Consulting Detective living in London. Conveniently, Siger and Violet Holmes discovered the unwed, intelligent daughter of their land-tenant. With a little coercion, the three adults agreed upon a marriage arrangement without the knowledge of their children._

_So Molly was forced into a marriage in order to save her father's home; her future husband similarly required to marry and settle down on the Holmes' land in order to obtain his substantial inheritance. _

_Molly's thoughts turned darker as hope faded. _I always thought that if I'd marry, I'd marry for love.

_It was all she could do to hold herself together as Siger led her back to the house._

* * *

One Year Later

_A squeal of delight pierced the silence of Bakersfield Manor early in the morning. Sherlock grimaced at the sound and, with great effort, refrained from rolling his eyes at his wife's antics._

_'__Thank you, Mister Holmes!' She gushed with great enthusiasm, admiring the stunning black stallion her husband had gifted her with for their wedding anniversary. They stood in the stables, where Bennett was brushing down the newly acquired horse._

_Sherlock sighed, 'Indeed, it was no great expense.' A flash of grief washed over him as he remembered why his pocketbook was so unencumbered. Although seven months had passed since the untimely passing of his parents, he was still unable to delete the emotions that accompanied the unwelcome change in his life._

_Molly quieted down, noticing the softening of her husband's eyes and knowing that his thoughts lay in a more sorrowful direction. She reached over and touched his arm. He jumped slightly in surprise but did not flinch away. Molly leaned up on her tiptoes and brushed her lips against the cheekbone she'd always admired, murmuring a quiet 'thank you.'_

_Sherlock nodded and made to leave, uncomfortable with the tight feeling in his chest when she kissed him._

_'__Will you not join me for a ride, Mister Holmes?'_

_Sherlock froze. 'My time is too valuable to be wasted upon a morning spent indulging in a pointless ride. However, feel free to spend your hours in whatever manner you desire, you are a lady of leisure, after all.' Harshly spoken, he threw the words over his shoulder and briskly walked out of the stables, unaware of how his wife's expectant smile had faded with every word._

_No longer buoyed by the gift Sherlock had given her, Molly's spirits sank to the floor. Bennett approached her quietly, having been witness to the cruelty Lord Holmes occasionally inflicted upon his wife. 'Lady Holmes, do you wish for me to prepare your horse for a ride?'_

_Molly couldn't bear to meet his pity-filled gaze, having been the recipient of it too many times. She continued to stare after her husband as his figure grew farther away, striding across the lawn toward the house._

_'__No. No riding today, Bennett.'_

_The feelings of disappointment and hurt were not new to Molly, in fact, they were very nearly her constant companions. She slowly made her way to follow her husband back to the manor, but decided partway to take a walk. _Better to be absent than to be underfoot. As though he would notice me otherwise.

_Her thoughts became increasingly melancholic as she wandered into the nearby woods, a well-worn path guiding her to a familiar creek._

_She sighed in hopelessness, her hands covering her abdomen. Until marriage opened the door, Molly had never considered children. But now… now the idea of a child of hers and Sherlock's made her smile. A son or daughter with his brilliant mind _(I do hope he does not know I have been sneaking glances at his case notes) _and her demeanor, his eyes and her nose, his wavy locks and her ready smile._

_But was that the only reason for her sadness? Molly grew pensive. If she were to have a child, that did not promise a better relationship between herself and Sherlock. He would find a child interesting to observe, perhaps, but would he love the child of a wife he did not want? Her heart clenched in pain at the reminder of his continued indifference to her._

_Her eyes widened in realization._

_Oh._

I love him.


	8. An Empty Victory

The Lestrades were enjoying the remnants of a lovely dinner and conversation with Molly Holmes when the front door was subjected to a sound beating. Instantly, the atmosphere tensed, the three knowing exactly who was demanding entrance.

'If you will excuse me,' with an encouraging smile toward Molly, the Inspector removed himself from the table and went to confront the child-like man waiting on the front steps.

Taking a deep breath, he plastered a smile on his face and opened the door. 'Ah, Mister Holmes and Doctor Watson, what can I-'

Before he could finish, Sherlock had shoved his way inside. 'You can tell me, Inspector, why someone who claims to uphold the Law has been hiding my wife away from me and lying to me.'

Lestrade merely blinked at the accusation before turning to graciously allow Doctor Watson to enter, shaking his hand in greeting.

'Graham!' Sherlock yelled, 'Pleasantries be damned, bring me my wife!'

Lestrade, ignoring the insult of a wrong name, was surprised into silence. _It appears that the incident on the street was not a one-time occurrence. The heartless logician appears to have discovered the demons of jealousy and possessiveness. _

'Sherlock, you will frighten her if you don't calm yourself,' Doctor Watson advised. 

They were interrupted by a startled Lady Charlotte, her eyes wide. 'By all that is holy, Sherlock Holmes, are you lacking of manners?'

With a malicious smirk, Sherlock bowed in greeting. 'Evening, Lady Lestrade,' his tone patronizing, 'If you are finished causing me endless frustration, I shall retrieve my wife and leave your humble home.'

'Mister Holmes, I beg you, apologize to my wife for your insolence.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes and ignored the Inspector's demand, brushing past the indignant woman and making his way through the house.

* * *

The loud voice of her husband carried down the hallway to where Molly stood with Charlotte. Part of her, the shattered pieces of her heart, warmed upon hearing Sherlock's baritone. The rest of her was in abject terror, knowing that if she showed weakness, she would find herself back in his home, and in his contempt.

The voices rose and Charlotte rushed out of the room, leaving Molly to worry the napkin she held in her hands.

Suddenly, thunderous steps sounded outside the door and Sherlock appeared in the doorway. He raked his shrewd gaze over her, no doubt deducing the emotional state she had been in since he'd last seen her. A frown appeared on his brow and Molly blinked in surprise. Then it vanished and he was stalking toward her, a tall, dark thundercloud. Molly stumbled back, her mouth refusing to speak, gaping open in shock.

'Wife,' he growled. 'You have cost me precious time and energy tracking you down.'

Grabbing her hand, he began to drag her out the door, snapping, 'Are you quite finished with your dramatics? My work cannot suffer another setback should you decide to throw another fit.'

Molly's shock turned to outrage and she tried to wrench her arm from his grasp, 'Unhand me this instant!'

Suddenly, Doctor Watson and Inspector Lestrade were beside her, breaking them apart. Charlotte rushed in and pulled Molly into a motherly embrace. Briefly returning it, Molly watched as her husband was pushed roughly away by an angry Lestrade. Doctor Watson grabbed him by the arm and whispered harshly in his ear. Molly could not hear what was said, but apparently it was enough to calm Sherlock down.

The moment of panic passed, and husband and wife faced each other, three mediators waiting to the side. Molly refused to be the first to speak and waited with shaking legs and trembling hands for Sherlock to break the silence.

Several minutes passed and Molly began to feel like an object under his optical microscope. Finally, inhaling deeply, Sherlock spoke in earnest and sincerely.

'Molly, I apologize for my behavior and wish for you to return home.' Four pairs of eyebrows raised in surprise.

_Did he just apologize? The git's been my crashing my crime scenes since he turned fifteen-years-old, I've never even gotten a bloody 'by your leave.'_

_Bloody hell, never thought I'd hear that from the Insulting Detective._

_Oh my heavens, he must truly care for her to say that, even in partial sincerity. _

_What game is playing with me now?_

'Come home, Molly.' He stepped forward, softening his features into a tender expression.

Like any man, Sherlock thought that a soft word and gentle plea would be sufficient to coerce her to bend to his will. Unfortunately for him, a manipulated woman can turn frigid when pushed too far.

In three steps, Molly closed the distance between them. Sherlock's smirk at her apparent consent was quickly removed from his face.

_Slap. _

'How dare you continue to manipulate me! You can take your false apology and insipid flirting and crawl back to your laboratory, knowing that you succeeded in pushing me out of your life.'

Holding his stinging cheek, Sherlock watched his wife spew long-held bitterness upon him. Her eyes were fierce with anger and her cheeks mottled red with indignant pride.

_She's lovely. _

Sherlock blinked at the thought, but did not dismiss it. _There is more to my wife than I assumed. Her plainness and timidity has apparently been a mask. The letters to her father show that she has intelligence, not rivalling mine, but certainly above that of John. _Sherlock became angry. Why would she have hidden her intelligence from him? Surely she knew her simple appearance would not intrigue him, but cleverness and intellect… those would have ensnared him.

Molly continued, breaking into his thoughts, 'You know what I desired in our marriage and have refused me. I see no reason for our continued façade of blissful wedlock.'

Molly made to curtsy and leave the room, sidestepping her husband. Panicking, Sherlock failed to rein in his tongue and burst out, 'Then by all means, let us do the deed and be done with this madness!'

A horrified silence followed Sherlock's outburst.

He could practically feel the daggers Lestrade was throwing with his eyes. The John voice in his Mind Palace echoed loudly _Not Good, mate. Utterly and astoundingly Not Good _and the actual Doctor Watson was slowly shaking his head in disgust in Sherlock's peripheral. Lady Lestrade had gasped at his words, her hands flying to her cheeks.

All this Sherlock noted as he stared at his wife's back. She had flinched at the volume of his shout, but it was the vacant gaze she raised to his when she slowly turned that made Sherlock snap out of his stupor.

'Molly, I-' he began, raking a hand through his wild curls, but was silenced by a simple raise of Molly's hand.

She took a deep breath and bravely held herself high. 'Mister Holmes,' she said strongly, 'You are mistaken if you believe that is the extent of my wants.'

Sherlock frowned, a crease forming between his brows as Molly continued.

'For two years, I have sought your companionship, your friendship, and your respect.' Taking a deep, shaky breath, Molly bravely forged on. 'Knowing that my appearance does not please you, I sought to win over your heart with my mind. For two years I failed to make you even notice. And I realized that the only options that remained were to convince you to make me your wife in full or to leave.'

She smiled sadly at him, but he could see the resignation in her eyes. 'And you were amply blunt about your stance on physical intimacy with _me_.'

Sherlock swallowed thickly, an unfamiliar feeling swirled unpleasantly in his gut. _Fix it._ 'In honesty, I regret my words from that night. They were poorly chosen and I did not intend to cause you pain.'

With a grim chuckle, Molly shook her head, 'Yes, you did. You have never said anything to me that was not carefully chosen to hurt me or push me away. I am no fool, Mister Holmes, and I will no longer be your 'ornament'.'

She felt her legs shaking and focused on not collapsing until her husband had departed.

Sherlock, however, stood rooted to the spot, gobsmacked. He had assumed that her never-ending optimism was because of her ignorance to his harsh words. And he was shocked to discover that not only had she been aware of what he was doing, she chose to ignore it in a nearly hopeless attempt to make their marriage work. _How did I miss her displays of intellect? _He resolved to spend time in his Mind Palace going over his interactions with her. Once she was back in his home again, that is.

An idea struck him. Resisting the urge to smile triumphantly, he put his plan into place, ignoring the John voice in his head screaming at him to keep his _bloody foolish mouth shut_.

'Missus Holmes,' she clenched her jaw at the address, but Sherlock forged ahead, 'you are a woman of impeccable character and devout religion.'

Molly stared at him warily, waiting for the penny to drop.

'Despite what you believe, and what I have led you to believe, I remain faithful to you alone. Should you leave me, you would not only be causing a scandal amongst the ton, but you would be committing a sin against the God you fear, whom I'm sure would not look favorably upon a divorce.'

The air grew thick as Molly glared at Sherlock in rage. He was right, of course. Having been raised by a religious mother, Molly adhered strongly to the Biblical foundations of marriage; one man, one woman, bound forever lest one commit an act of infidelity.

And her own husband, who did not even believe in a higher power, was using it against her.

The spectators to this affair dared not even breath, for fear of interrupting. They watched as Lord and Lady Holmes stared each other down, waiting for the other to concede defeat.

In the end, it was Molly who bowed her head and relented. 'Very well, Mister Holmes. You win.'

Even Sherlock knew that his wife's tone was one of defiance, not resignation. He stepped toward her and lifted her chin, her eyes widening in surprise.

'Despite what I have said and the acts of intolerance I have committed, wife, I promise you now…'

He leaned down, softly kissing her cheek and delighting in her sudden gasp, whispered in her ear in a low, rumbling pitch, '…I will win your heart.'

Something fluttered in her chest. A flare of hope. Molly fought against it as her husband stepped away, a smirk on his face, his gaze piercing and unwavering. Hiding her shaking hands in the folds of her dress, Molly lifted her chin defiantly. 'I will return with you, Mister Holmes. But you would do well to remember,' she felt her confident chin falter slightly, 'no one is victorious when the trophy is broken.'

* * *

Bag packed and coat in hand, Molly bid her goodbyes to the Lestrades, promising to visit for afternoon tea the following week. Sherlock stood aside, fidgeting at the show of affection his wife bestowed upon her friends.

With a sharp nod at the Inspector, Sherlock followed his wife outside into the damp London air.

'My horse is still at the stables,' Molly said, her eyes flicking to her husband's stallion tied to a nearby pole in his haste. 'I shall be no more than ten minutes ride behind you.'

Sherlock sneered, 'Despite your impetuous decision to leave by horse, I am sure you do not desire to be subject to the uncomfortableness once again. We shall together retrieve your horse and rent a carriage. I'm sure Bennett will be delighted to return it on the morrow.'

Sighing, Molly decided to acquiesce. _Besides, it really is a discomfort to ride side-saddle for such a trip. I'm not sure how Sherlock would react if he knew I had worn trousers when I left._

They set off together down the street. A few moments passed and Molly, coming out of her thoughts, noticed a tight, almost painful grip on her elbow. Looking down, she found she was being held in the iron hold of her husband's hand. Grinding her teeth, she glared up at him with a false smile on her face.

'Am I to be a prisoner for the sake of your pride?'

Sherlock froze mid-step and released her arm. 'You would be a guest, not a prisoner.' Instantly, he knew his words were chosen poorly.

Molly laughed mirthlessly, 'A guest in my own home, how delightful. Tell me, how long is my visit to last? I should like to make arrangements for when my presence suddenly becomes overbearing and taxes your brilliant mind.'

Were her words not so shocking, Sherlock would have shown the depth of his surprise on his face. Gone was the quiet, compliant wife and in her place stood a sharp-tongued, confident woman of wit.

_And it only took breaking her for you to discover her. _The voice of Doctor Watson in his mind seemed to taunt him as he tightly smiled at Molly. He raised his bent arm in offering to her.

Molly scoffed, interpreting the smile as a confident smirk of a man who believes he has the upper hand. _Now he decides to be a gentleman. Two years and it only took a great beating to his pride to make him act like a proper gentleman. _

His eyebrows raised in expectation as she stared at him with disbelief. With narrowed eyes and a haughty flick of her head, Molly ignored the proffered arm and made her way down the road without him.

Sherlock blinked after her, letting his arm fall to his side. _Really, that is no way for a lady to act. _He started after her and opened his mouth to tell her what-for when the Watson-voice spoke sharply _Don't! You will not win her over with more harsh words. _

Grumbling, he found his place at her side and they walked in silence to the city stables to retrieve her horse.

_This ridiculous game she insists on playing will be the end of my sanity. But I will be victorious._


	9. To Know His Own Heart

After Sherlock's behavior, Lestrade put him on 'temporary leave' from working with Scotland Yard. Frustrated, Sherlock decided he would use the punishment as an opportunity to solve the mystery of his wife full-time. But she was adamant about remaining distant from him.

When he would ask her to join him for breakfast, she would take it in her room. When he offered to accompany her on a ride, she claimed to not want to go out (a lie, his eyes caught the twitch of her nose as she said it) and desired to lay down as she had a headache. Whenever he would enter a room, she would find an excuse to leave. The maids and servants were divided, some helping hide Lady Holmes, others scheming to lock the couple in a room together in order to end the tension and have peace reign once more.

Angry, confused, and wondering about the clenching feeling in his gut, Sherlock was grateful when Lestrade lifted his ban.

Gathering Doctor Watson from his (utterly inconvenient) regular work, the duo rushed to solve a triple murder. Within the day, Sherlock determined the culprit to be a well-bred banker whose two mistresses had discovered his marriage. Desperate to prevent scandal, he had killed the two women (prostitutes, honestly, the man should have had better taste in lovers) and the homeless man who had been an unfortunate witness to the deed.

While Lestrade and his colleagues made the arrest at the banker's home and comforted the unfortunate wife, Sherlock stood back and noticed his companion had disappeared. Leaving the drawing room, Sherlock wandered into the front hall where he saw Watson approach one of the house guests (a young, blonde woman from Kent, visiting her cousin, the murderer's wife).

Sherlock watched as Doctor Watson greeted the upset woman, a faint blush alighting her cheeks. Ever the gentleman, Watson took her hand and bowed in a gallant fashion, not failing to place a soft kiss to her gloved knuckles. A silent conversation seemed to pass between the two, their eyes locked and hands clasped together. Identical smiles of a smitten nature graced their faces and a pang of something echoed in Sherlock's chest.

Eager to end the spectacle, Sherlock rudely intruded, 'Doctor Watson, if you are quite finished with your appalling display, we should be leaving.'

Fully expecting Watson to chastise him briefly, then accompany him outside, Sherlock was surprised when Watson merely nodded, not taking his eyes from the woman. He leaned over and whispered in her ear, eliciting a small giggle from her unpainted lips, dispersing her earlier distress, and earning him a gentle kiss on the cheek.

'Good-bye, Doctor Watson, Mister Holmes' she curtsied to the two men and left the room. A happily-dazed Watson blindly followed a confused Sherlock out onto the bustling London street.

After walking for several minutes, Sherlock conceded defeat and halted in his steps, causing an oblivious Watson to crash into him. Mumbling some plethora of curses, Watson glared at the taller man.

Sherlock merely wrinkled his brow and narrowed his eyes. 'I do not understand. She is not your relation, for your actions with her were far too friendly. She is not a friend, either, for the same reason. But she is a new acquaintance, seeing as she is still shy around you. I would assume lovers, but you are recently engaged to another woman. Explain.'

Watson rolled his eyes, 'I'm not engaged to another woman, Holmes. I'm engaged to her.'

Sherlock blinked. _Oh. _

'Her name is Mary Morstan. I became acquainted with her at a social last month while visiting my sister in Kent, where Mary was formally introduced to society. Knowing that a woman of her breeding and appearance would be quickly betrothed, I simply jumped ahead of the queue and made an offer before any other imbecile was able.' With a satisfied smile, Watson's eyes glazed over. 'Best decision I ever made.'

Confused, Sherlock asked, 'But she is your betrothed, now. Why do you continue to play the part of a smitten suitor?'

Watson snapped out of his daze and rolled his eyes, 'Because I'm still a smitten suitor, you great bloody idiot. She is promised to me, yes, but that does not mean I do not intend to continue pursuing her.'

Sherlock tilted his head in thought.

Watson pulled him out of the way of foot traffic, into a nearby alcove. 'Sherlock, is this about Molly? I thought the situation had improved between the two of you since she returned.'

A heavy sigh accompanied an agitated hand through his curls as Sherlock confessed, 'As it happens, I have not seen my wife for more than a ten-minute span since she moved back a fortnight ago. She is endeavoring to avoid me.' A pained look crossed his face. 'And succeeding.'

Watson felt his heart ache for the look of utter helplessness on his best friend's face. 'I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'd say she needs time, but from what I witnessed at the Lestrade residence, time is not the answer.'

'Then what is?' Sherlock snapped.

'Answer me this first, Sherlock. Do you love her?'

Silence stretched between them as Sherlock delved into his Mind Palace. Having never felt love for anyone aside from parental fondness of his mother and father and an abiding tolerance for Mycroft, he did not know what it was he felt for his wife. Her room in his mind was a mystery, a conglomeration of everything he thought she had been and the little he knew of her now. Books now lay scattered about, his case notes spread open upon a mahogany desk where his mind's version of Molly sat, with spectacles upon her dainty nose, perusing the notes with her lip caught in her teeth and a fountain pen dangling from her fingertips.

She looked up at him and smiled, eyes crinkling from the depth of her happiness, light from the open window reflected in them. It was a smile he had not seen her wear for more than a year.

Something in his chest grew, a sort of expanding that threatened to overwhelm him. Instead of panic, he felt joyful, as though he had solved the most complicated case. He felt his own face mirroring her smile, stiff from neglect, but a wonderful stretch nonetheless.

Watson watched as his friend closed his eyes and left reality to wander his Mind Palace. Patiently, the doctor stood and waited. Several minutes passed and Sherlock's blank expression began to morph. Watson watched in shocked amusement as the detective smiled widely, straight teeth threatening to split his face, his eyes still closed but somehow still a part of his grin.

_I guess that more than answers that question. _

Leaving his thoughts, Sherlock opened his eyes to see a smirking Doctor Watson. He opened his mouth to deny it, but Watson merely shook his head and beamed at him.

'Don't even say it. You love her. And I will tell you how to win her back.'


	10. Somewhere Only We Know

As she wandered across the estate, Molly fought down feelings of guilt. She had spent the last two weeks angrily avoiding her husband and her shame was beginning to overpower her indignant fury.

The midday sun was hidden by the dense thicket of tree branches above her head, sharp rays peeking through here and there, lighting the way to her secret place. A small creek ran through the Holmes' land, and during an exploratory walk early in their marriage, Molly had followed it into the woods on the far edge of the estate where tall, ancient trees stood sentry.

Following the rippling brook a ways, Molly had quickly discovered a small clearing. It was here, under a particularly large, lone tree in the middle of the clearing, that Molly would spend many an hour lamenting her fate and escaping the oppression that was her marriage. No one from the house knew of her secluded place, always believing her to be walking the border of the Holmes' land.

Molly climbed the small incline from the creek to her tree. Pulling back the sleeve of her dress, she stood on her tiptoes and reached her arm into a small, circular crevice in the wood and drew out a heavily-wrapped cloth bundle. She sat down, setting her back against the tree, and unwrapped the parcel. A plain, brown leather journal fell out, its pages ragged and worn. With a gentle caress of the cover, Molly flipped open the book to an empty page. Sliding her graphite pencil from her hair bun, she began to detail the gap between the previous entry and the present time.

When she first began hiding her diary in the tree mere weeks after she was married, she felt a mite silly. But as the months passed, she grew confident in her decision, noticing the occasional nosiness of certain staff and of her husband when he grew particularly bored. Thus far, luck was on her side and no one seemed to be aware of her private clearing.

Sadly, her fortune at keeping her place in the woods a secret was at its end. Mere minutes after she had begun writing, the sound of splashing reached her ears.

She froze.

Another splash and the distant grunt of a man.

_Sherlock._

Scrambling, Molly hastily wrapped her journal in its coverings and just barely managed to shove it back in the tree and turn around before her disgruntled husband appeared at the far end of the clearing, his trousers soaked and splattered with mud.

'M-mister Holmes,' Molly stuttered, inwardly cursing herself for her show of weakness. _Blast him for catching me off guard. He must have followed me here._

'Molly,' Sherlock nodded in greeting, clasping his hands behind his back as he stepped out of the creek and advanced toward her.

Molly schooled her features into a neutral expression, not letting the fact that his lean, toned torso clad in a tailored vest and waistcoat was begging to be admired. Broken heart aside, she still loved the man and try as she might, she found herself instinctively responding to him. But fear and common sense kept her reigned in, preventing her from showing weakness and falling prey to his ploys.

Sherlock was doing some admiring of his own, though his face was openly expressive about it. Her hair was falling out of its makeshift bun, framing her face with wisps and tendrils, small curls brushing the nape of her neck. Though plain-colored and simple of design, her gown was flattering to her small figure, not uncomfortably tight, but tailored sufficiently to hint at womanly curves hidden beneath. A smirk tugged at his lips as he noticed the blush rising in Molly's cheeks. She was trying to refrain from looking anywhere except his face, but Sherlock saw the signs. Dilated eyes, hitched breath, and the quite becoming rosy hue gracing her features. _Bloody hell, I sound like a smitten Watson. _

'I do hope I am not intruding, but I thought I might join you on your daily stroll,' Sherlock purred, watching with smug pleasure as her blush deepened. ('Find what makes her happy, share in it. Books, science, nature, even idle gossip… immerse yourself in her life where she is, don't demand she come to you.') _Well, Watson, here I am. In the horrible, overwhelming __**nature **__she seems to like so much. _Confident that his plan would work, Sherlock smiled in satisfaction.

Unfortunately, not having much experience with women, Sherlock had made the erroneous assumption that she was flushing in pleasure when, in fact, his galling smirk and demanding arrogance only served to fuel Molly's fury.

Tilting her chin in defiance, her voice cold and clipped, 'As a matter of fact, you are. If you would be so kind, I came here for solitude and wish for you to leave.'

Sherlock gaped and felt his frustration and confusion rise. He took a deep breath, prepared to make a snarky remark when Watson's advice came back to him ('and whatever you do, don't insult her. For the love of God, don't insult her'). With an annoyed twitch of his nose, Sherlock bit back the retort and forced a smiled on his face.

'Of course,' he said, trying to make his voice sound natural through clenched teeth. He turned to leave, but his pride refused to let her have the victory and he quickly spun back around. 'If you would do me the honor, I would like to have you join me for tea this afternoon.'

Molly hesitated, trying to think of an excuse to refuse the sudden demand. 'Th-thank you, Mister Holmes, but I am afraid that-'

As soon as it was obvious she was declining, Sherlock felt his temper snap. 'For the love of God, woman, I am trying to make amends here! But you insist on being obstinate,' he bellowed.

'Well, perhaps if you weren't such a brute, demanding things of me,' Sherlock opened his mouth to object, but she glared at him, hands on her hips, 'and no, a placating 'if you would do me the honor' in no way makes a difference, because I know you don't mean it. You do not ask to join me for a walk, you follow me. You do not invite me to break the fast with you, you send a servant to tell me to come down. You refuse to ask me to ride, instead ordering me to put my riding habit on and meet you at the stables.'

Frustrated tears filled her eyes and she angrily swiped the drop that escaped, 'When you look at me, you do not see a wife or even a human being. You see a mystery, a case that you have to solve by the most efficient means necessary. And as soon as you do, if I let you win, you'll take what's left of my heart and revert to the cold, distant husband you were before.'

She lowered her eyes, knowing it seemed weak, but unable to interpret his indiscernible look. 'I won't give it to you, Sherlock. It would destroy me.'

Utterly speechless, Sherlock stared at her bowed head.

His heart clenched painfully as he saw several teardrops fall onto the arms she wrapped defensively around her waist.

_What can I say to prove that I care for __**you**__, as a woman, as my __**wife**__? _('She won't trust you, Sherlock. You will have to be patient. But if you genuinely care for her, even love her, you will spend every moment proving to her that you are sincere and trustworthy. Words only go so far, in the end, it is your actions that will be the catalyst.')

Knowing that if he were to abide her request for solitude, he would be taking the first steps toward reconciliation. The thought of leaving her while she was so upset shook him, but he knew no words or gestures of comfort would be welcome. Yet. So, without a word, Sherlock turned away and walked out of the clearing.

And if he heard a strangled sob from the woman he left behind...

...well, he chose to ignore it.

He would show her that her heart would be safe with him.

No matter how long it took.


	11. Flirtations of a Confused Nature

The social was in full swing by sunset, more than four dozen well-dressed couples dancing gaily in a whirl of dresses and coat tails, and Anthea Holmes was desperately trying to suppress a grin of amusement as her husband's brother tried to flirt with his own wife. In a tailored dress of rich burgundy, Molly Holmes was stunning and it was clear, even from a distance, that her mask of indifference to her husband's huskily whispered words was cracking. That is, if the deep red of her cheeks was any indication. It appeared that Lord and Lady Sherlock Holmes were making progress in repairing their marriage, acting and blushing like newlyweds.

In reality, Sherlock was taking advantage of a public setting to romantically pursue his wife, something that was hard to accomplish at Bakersfield where Molly adamantly continued to avoid him. He refused to leave her side during the social, claiming every dance and allowing no other man to charm her away. It helped that she dressed in a fetching gown, one that he had not seen her wear previously. It flowed around her shapely body like none of her frumpy house frocks could dream to. His heart beat faster as he openly admired his wife's attractiveness and witty banter throughout the evening.

_My wife, _he smiled.

For her part, Molly secretly enjoyed the unwavering attention of her husband, but believed it to be a façade. Such a public location made it impossible for her to slip away from him, so she desperately fought against falling for his whispered flirtations, even as her cheeks and ears grew warm from his spoken affections.

Mycroft drew up to Anthea's side, resplendent as always in a tailored suit. Anthea smiled up at him before returning her gaze to the dancing guests. The cut of his jacket across his broad chest did things to Anthea, even after seven years of marriage and she pretended not to notice Mycroft's smirk at her blushing cheeks.

'It appears,' Mycroft leaned down to whisper in her ear, 'that my brother is quickly learning the art of seduction.'

'Well, he is a Holmes, love.' Anthea winked up at him and cherished the brief softening of his gaze before the frigid politician mask returned. 'It may have taken him thirty-odd years to put it into practice, but he seems to be making progress.'

They smiled as they watched Sherlock bend down once more to whisper in his wife's ear as she observed the dancing. Suddenly, Molly's face lost its composure and she whirled about in fury, her hand flying in the air, landing a spectacular slap upon her husband's unsuspecting cheek. Anthea gasped and Mycroft grimaced, as did the half dozen guests who were witness. Several couples dancing nearby stumbled as a visibly upset Lady Holmes pushed her way across the floor, leaving a dumbfounded Sherlock behind.

Wordlessly, Anthea and Mycroft looked at each other and split up; one to go and comfort, the other to go and confront.

* * *

His cheek stinging, Sherlock watched as Molly fled, the image of her tear-filled eyes confusing him. Within seconds, Mycroft stood beside him, a grim expression upon his aging face. 'Brother, what unfortunately timed insult have you unleashed upon that girl now?'

Sherlock glared at him, 'I did not insult her. She simply misunderstood my meaning and did not allow me to explain before violently assaulting me.'

'Violently, indeed.' Mycroft smirked. In all honesty, he had not expected his sister-in-law to have hidden a wrathful streak underneath that mousey exterior. But he was delighted to be mistaken in this case. 'For my own edification, what did you say to her that would elicit such a reaction?'

Sherlock sighed, 'I merely wanted to tell her I admire the fit of her dress and that it flatters her, usually hidden, figure.'

Mycroft huffed in exasperation, 'You told her she has put on weight, didn't you?'

His brother shifted uneasily, touching the hand-shaped print on his cheek, and refused to answer. Mycroft sighed, 'Surely Mummy had taught you better.'

'I suppose I should have phrased it in a better manner. _'I see my change in attitude is positively affecting you, my dear. You've managed to gain seven pounds over the past two months'_ was apparently poor phraseology. I was attempting to encourage her, she was ghastly thin when I retrieved her from the Lestrades'.'

Mycroft nodded, remembering how desperately ill the girl had looked no more than two months ago. He stood there with Sherlock in silence for several minutes, watching as the music stopped and the guests began interweaving on the dance floor, changing partners for the next number.

When the music began again, Mycroft turned one last time to his brother. 'Remember, Sherlock, that Molly has no trust in you.' Sherlock's face tightened almost imperceptibly. 'If you are to win her back, fancy words are not enough, especially ones that are not given great consideration. A woman will never forget words spoken in anger. Forgive, yes, but never forget. Consistent displays of devotion and adoration go far in establishing a foundation of caring that one can fall back on when words are carelessly spoken in haste.'

Brow furrowed in thought, Sherlock nodded and turned to follow his wife. He hesitated for a moment and turned partway around. His nose wrinkled in distaste. 'As much as I am loathe to say it,' he looked Mycroft in the eye, 'thank you.'

* * *

Mortified by her husband's deduction of her body, Molly shoved her way out of the stifling room, bursting through the large doors onto the abandoned veranda. The brisk night air, a hint of the coming Winter, chapped her cheeks. Molly blinked at the sudden rush of cold air and the tears she'd tried so hard to keep at bay, escaped.

A hand suddenly appeared in front of her, a handkerchief ornately embroidered with the initials _AJH _dangling from slender fingers.

'Thank you, Anthea. I apologize for the scene I caused,' Molly sniffled. She dabbed her the tears from her eyes, huffing a laugh at herself, 'One would think that I should have run out of tears long ago when it came to that man.'

'There are never enough tears to shed when they are caused by a loved one,' Anthea reached over and gave Molly's hand a sympathetic squeeze. 'Would you like to talk about it?'

Molly smiled sadly and looked out over the darkening grounds, the last hint of sunlight ghosting over the tops of the far distant trees. 'What is there to say? He may not intended to insult me, but here we are. I'm actually quite unsurprised.'

'I do not intend to pry, but I was under the impression he had been making progress in avoiding such a situation, that the two of you were becoming closer.'

Molly shook her head and moved toward the edge of the veranda, leaning against the stone pillar. Her hands twisted the handkerchief into worried knots, a sign of her anxiety. 'I have tried so hard to stop myself from feeling for him, so when he does hurt me, my heart won't feel like it's been dragged to the depths of the deepest sea. But I am not immune to his charms and, Anthea,' she laughed ruefully, 'a more charming man you have never met. Sherlock has been the ever-dashing prince of my most romantic dreams these past few weeks.'

'Is that not what you wanted?' Anthea asked quietly.

Molly sighed, 'He does not love me. To him, I am a game, a mystery for him to solve. And when it is over, he will lose interest and I will be left even more broken than I am now.'

Several moments passed as Molly struggled to keep her voice from trembling. 'I want to believe he is in earnest.'

'But?' Anthea prodded.

'But the things he has said, the way he has treated me before,' Molly's voice broke as she soldiered on, 'He said he could never be satisfied with me as a wife, that he fulfilled that human desire with someone more beautiful and intelligent than I. He denied it later, but what if it's true?' Her voice choked on a sob, 'I _am_ plain and drab, so surely he is not attracted to me. I fear that if I believe him, become his wife in full, he will cast me aside once more for another.'

Desperately holding back her own tears, Anthea swept the younger woman into an embrace, cradling her as she sobbed. _Oh, Sherlock, you utter fool._

Unbeknownst to either woman, Sherlock stood in the shadows. As the women cried into the darkening night, he silently slid through the open door back into the crowded room.


	12. To Hope for a Future

Three days had passed since the disastrous scene at the social and Molly had not seen her husband since they returned to Bakersfield in a stifling oppressive carriage ride. He had swept out the small door, not even assisting Molly out, and was gone in an instant. Molly retired for the night and by morning, Lord Holmes had vanished from the manor.

The servants breathed a sigh of relief, preferring the demure Lady Holmes to the often thunderously chaotic Sherlock. As the days passed, Molly immersed herself in reading the extensive scientific library in the study, books that were unbecoming a lady of polite society. But her interests lay far from needlepoint and endless piano recitals. Being the daughter of a prominent country doctor opened her eyes early to the realities of life and death, but instead of turning from it in horror, Molly found herself intrigued. Her father and mother had encouraged her to learn beyond the sexist basics enforced by society and Molly became a proficient nurse to assist her father, but only in the most discreet cases. It would not have done for a lady of Molly's standing to be seen in such an unbecoming fashion.

That all ended when Matthias Hooper came home one day and announced that Molly was to be wed to one Sherlock Holmes within the month. Molly's dreams of overcoming societal boundaries were snuffed in an instant, and her future was filled with fittings and flowers and a vicious-tongued fiancé. Ever the optimist, Molly smiled through it all, hoping that her future husband would see her interest in his work.

After their marriage, Molly kept smiling in confidence. But as the days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, Molly's hope faded. When she endeavored to corral Sherlock into a conversation about his work, he would brush her off claiming it would be unfit for a lady. She was certain that it was obvious she had been sneaking into his study to read his case notes, but apparently he did not even entertain the idea of her interest for her made no mention of it.

She tried to make it more apparent, leaving her spectacles atop a pile of parchment, her favorite fountain pen placed next to his; even going so far as to make a few of her own notes next to his. All in vain, for Sherlock did not take notice.

_He never noticed me until I ran, until I became a case for him to solve. But I do not have the endurance nor am I intriguing enough to maintain his interest for the rest of our lives together. _

_I'm tired of this game he's playing already. _

By nightfall of the third day after the social, Molly had read through several large volumes in Sherlock's collection. She had given the staff a reprieve, allowing them to remain in their wing of the estate for the week, so the house fell silent around her as the sun set. When the darkness made it difficult to read, Molly fetched an oil lamp to set beside the large armchair she had commandeered. She knew it was Sherlock's favourite, a deep cushion and low arms, perfect for Molly's small stature. She swung her body sideways, throwing her legs over one arm of the chair and twisting her torso slightly so her back was sitting against where the wing of the chair met the back.

The lateness of the hour, combined with the silence of the house, lulled Molly into a stupor. The book propped against her tilted thighs shifted sideways, before falling to the floor as a gentle snore emanated from the petite, drowsing brunette.

* * *

**Earlier That Day**

'Mister Holmes,' Charlotte said in surprise, as she opened the door. 'It is good to see you. Unfortunately, my husband is not at home-'

'I came to see you,' Sherlock hurriedly interjected, his tone clipped and eyes piercing. 'For the sake of appearances, I will not enter your home, lest someone start an unfounded rumor to fuel that god-forsaken gossip mill. So, I shall ask you to accompany me on a stroll.'

Charlotte faltered, but the pleading eyes behind the stoic mask drew on her sympathy and she nodded. Grabbing her cloak to shield her from the biting wind, Charlotte stepped out and the two made their way down the street.

'I assume you are here to ask for advice concerning winning Molly back,' Charlotte said stiffly, sneaking a glance at the clearly uncomfortable Consulting Detective.

He swallowed thickly, 'Actually, Lady Charlotte, it is more complicated than that.'

'Oh?' She quirked a haughty eyebrow.

They walked in silence as they passed by a group of women, nodding their greetings. 'Perhaps it is better if we were to find a more private place, such as the park,' Charlotte suggested, knowing that the cold weather would deter many London townspeople from heading there. Sherlock nodded in agreement. As they passed under the archway, noticing they were now unlikely to be overheard, Sherlock continued.

'Forgive me if what I am about to say offends you,' Sherlock rushed on, not giving her time to speak, 'it is not my intention, and if Molly is as dear a friend to you as you are to her, then you will want what is best for her, which is a full marriage to the man she loves, nothing between them, no anger or animosity and your offended feelings would be a minimal price to pay.'

Charlotte blinked at the rapid stream of words Sherlock managed to speak in a single breath. Catching the general idea of his intentions, she smiled slightly and nodded, 'Of course, but you should remember who my husband is, lest you become too free in your 'offensive' words.'

Sherlock nodded solemnly, too absorbed in frustration and nerves to understand her good-natured ribbing in an effort to ease his discomfort. Charlotte frowned and halted in her steps, reaching out to touch Sherlock's arm. He stopped and stiffened at her touch.

'Tell me what is troubling you, Mister Holmes.'

He turned his gaze away from her, observing a young couple happily walking along further up the path. That familiar clenching in his chest was accompanied by an unfamiliar swooping in his gut, as though the ground beneath him had been suddenly removed.

'Your failure to remain faithful in your marriage should have led your husband to request a swift and justified divorce. Yet you are now in the throes of 'blissful' marriage, despite your well-known proclivity for illicit affairs.' Sherlock's bluntness about her shortcomings and past indiscretions brought shameful tears to her eyes and a defensive anger to the front. She instantly wanted to slap him, or walk quickly back home and cry. Perhaps both. But his next sentence, a whispered, desperate plea, froze all desire to turn away.

'So how did you manage to earn his forgiveness?'

Charlotte was silent. _This explains his asking for forgiveness. _Several moments passed as Charlotte gathered her thoughts.

'Thank you for coming to me, Mister Holmes,' she said softly. Sherlock snapped his gaze back to her. Clearly he had been expecting at least an indignant huff at his unfiltered words, if not a deserving slap. Charlotte patted his arm gently, 'I was a mite offended by your sharp tongue, I admit. But you did not intend to insult me. There is no need for forgiveness, for you did nothing wrong. Those were sins that I have committed, not speaking of them does not make them any less true.'

Sherlock blinked in shock. 'Thank you.'

They began walking once more, Charlotte considering her words carefully. 'It was not an easy road, Mister Holmes. For people like you and I, we cannot fathom the depth of understanding that Gregory and Molly have. If Gregory were to be unfaithful to me, I know I would never have the courage to forgive him.'

'Courage?' Sherlock interrupted.

Charlotte smiled, 'Yes, Sherlock, courage.' His eyes widened at his Christian name. _Does this mean she considers me a friend? Interesting. _'To trust someone again who has hurt you in a most personal and damaging manner takes more courage than I can comprehend. It means putting aside all the pain and anger in order to fix something that has been broken beyond repair.'

Silence fell between them as Sherlock pondered on her words. _Molly has certainly proven her depth of compassion, enduring my disdain for two years. But after what I heard her tell Anthea…_

The thoughts of that night brought a sharp pain to his heart, knowing what Molly was truly thinking. He knew she still held affection for him, the becoming blushes he elicited during the social were proof enough of that. But to know that she was afraid of giving him that last piece of her heart, the trust that he had obliterated, because she was terrified he would toss it aside for another woman… that broke him.

Sherlock couldn't bear to look at her the rest of the evening, escaping the carriage before Bennett had even halted the horses in front of Bakersfield. He rushed inside, leaving Molly to her own devices, and locked himself in his study. He spent half the night laying on the settee, desperately trying to delete the sound of her crying. The Molly in his Mind Palace followed him around, dressed in a tantalizing crimson gown, her face streaked with tears. Her cries echoed in every room, every hallway of his Mind Palace, haunting him. Her scent permeated the room around him, infiltrating his thoughts. _She's been in my study. By the strength of the scent, she is often here, something my mind has noticed, judging by the presence of her in my Mind Study. _

By sunrise, he was a red-eyed wreck, unable to escape the tantalizing scent of his wife. The sound of servants sleepily wakening the household roused him from his light stupor. Without thinking twice, he ran out to the stables, still clad in his suit from the previous evening, and rode his horse into London.

By dawn, Sherlock was pounding on the door of 187 North Gower Street. A sleepy yet furious John Watson swung open the door, opening his mouth to curse out the Consulting Detective on his front stoop. Sherlock pushed past him, racing up the stairs to the flat he once occupied, before the whole marriage arrangement forced him to Bakersfield.

'Sherlock Holmes!' A now awake, even more furious Watson pounded up the stairs behind him. 'What the bloody hell are you doing here at this time of day?' He entered the flat and found the tall man on his back, taking over the entire settee, hands steepled under his chin. 'Oh, the sodding Mind Palace,' Watson grumbled, knowing the man would stay there for hours.

Indeed, when the good doctor returned home from his rounds that evening, Sherlock was still absorbed in his Mind Palace. And he remained there the entire night and following day. By the third day, Watson resolved to rouse Sherlock if he were still wandering his mind by the evening. Yet, when he returned home, it was to find an empty flat. _How delightful, I am merely a man with a flat to him. He had better return soon and tell me what the bloody hell that was all about._

* * *

Sherlock turned to Charlotte, 'Did Molly ever confide in you why she left me so suddenly?' He knew the answer; Molly would never speak ill of him to anyone, no matter how justified she may be.

But to hear a resounding 'no' from Charlotte lifted a burden from his shoulders he did not know he bore. _Even after everything I threw at her, she remained the loyal to the privacy of our marriage._

He took a deep breath, deciding to be honest with the woman beside him, 'I have always been a blunt, often callous, man. But I have never purposely spoken a word of untruth. But in my confusion over what I felt, am feeling, for Molly, I found myself pushing her away. At first, it was simply reflex. I have never been close to anyone, Doctor Watson and your husband are my only friends, and I was uncomfortable sharing my life with a stranger.'

He sighed and continued, 'As time passed, I suppose I started gathering small trifles of affection for her, but had no idea at the time what to label them. So I began consciously driving her away, trying to get rid of the unknown feelings, with harsh deductions about her appearance and mentions of her annoying presence. She was beginning to consume my thoughts, stealing valuable mental facilities from cases and experiments. I thought that avoiding her would cause this to cease and my work would continue unhindered.'

Charlotte turned her head when he was silent for several moments. A look of utter pain distorted his features. Understanding that he needed a moment to regain control, Charlotte guided them around the curving path to a small bench where they sat in silence for a time.

Suddenly, Sherlock leaned forward, elbows on his knees and stared hard at his clasped hands. 'That night that she ran, that she went to you. The things I said, what I did to her.' His deep baritone voiced cracked and Charlotte felt her eyes fill with tears. 'I thought I would anger her, get her to leave me in peace for a time. But I didn't know her, I didn't know she was breaking, or that the cruelty with which I cut her down would break her completely.'

He lifted his head, staring straight ahead, unfocused; his face a cool mask, but his eyes shining with liquid agony. 'Can you imagine the pain she felt when I told her she was a plain ornament forced on me by society? That I found her neither beautiful nor intelligent? Was it that thought that broke her? Or was it the final arrow, the one even my own mind screamed at me not to voice, when I told her I found my pleasure in someone else?'

Charlotte hiccupped a sob, biting her lip hard to hold back the rest. For some time, the two sat staring straight ahead in silence, while Charlotte struggled against the sting of tears. Once she regained control, she took a trembling breath and laid a hand on Sherlock's arm. He didn't turn to look at her, but she spoke anyway.

'I cannot speak for Molly, Sherlock. A woman does not forgive as a man does. By being unfaithful to Gregory, I emasculated him, took his pride as a husband and crushed it. What you said to Molly, she may feel the same betrayal as Gregory, but you also destroyed her confidence in herself as a _woman_, not just as a wife. You have a hard road ahead of you, should you choose to pursue Molly.'

Sherlock turned his head swiftly to glare at Charlotte in disbelief. 'Of course I am going to pursue her.'

'Not just because she is a mystery? That you're curious that the woman you married suddenly has intellect to rival yours and a witty tongue to boot?'

'She was always clever,' Sherlock growled.

'Then tell her,' Charlotte snapped. 'You tore her down with thoughtless words, build her up with honest admiration. Show her that she is your heart's devotion.' Sherlock raised his eyebrows at that, but remained silent. _Oh, Sherlock, you really love her. You just don't know how to quantify it. _'But do it in moderation, you mustn't seem to be mocking her, as she is still wary of your sincerity. For good reason.'

Sherlock glared at her.

'If we are to be friend, Sherlock Holmes, you must accept that I am an honest woman and I will not hesitate to put you in your place,' she stated confidently.

With a sigh, Sherlock sat back up, leaning against the back of the bench. He turned a fond gaze to Charlotte and with a genuine smile, said 'I shall count on it.'

'Now that we are of the same mind, I insist we meet once a week to evaluate your progress and discuss what you should or should not do,' Charlotte declared.

Resisting the urge to sneer, Sherlock relented. 'If I must.'

* * *

It was after dusk when Sherlock returned to Bakersfield, having been waylaid by a frustrated Inspector Lestrade, who needed his help on a case. Open and shut, Sherlock rolled his eyes at the simplicity of the murder, and returned home.

He unsaddled his horse in the stables and gave him a good brushing down before heading back to the manor. His mind filled with possibilities for fixing his relationship with Molly, he deferred sleep in favor of making a plan of action. The house was eerily silent as he made his way down the hall. He stopped suddenly. The door to his study was cracked and a flickering light illuminated a distorted rectangle of light into the hall. Cautiously, Sherlock moved forward, his bare feet moving along the wood floor in silence. With his back to the door, he pressed his palm against it and quietly pushed it open enough to peek inside.

What he saw made his heart nearly stop.

Curled up in his favourite chair, asleep, with her legs hanging over the side, was his wife.

Her spectacles were sliding down her nose, her dressing gown bunched around her legs, and her arm dangled over the front of the chair, fingertips brushing Galton's book on human psychology. The light from the oil lamp cast her face in shadows, but illuminated the rich mahogany of her unbound hair. His fingers twitched, curious to touch the soft-looking strands.

Suddenly, she shifted in her sleep and her brow furrowed, as though in pain. _Of course. She can't possibly be comfortable sleeping in that position. However, if I were to wake her up, she would be angry at being watched or embarrassed at being caught. Most likely an interesting combination of both. Yet I cannot allow her to sleep in such an awful position._

For several minutes, Sherlock debated with himself. Finally, he moved toward her, his mind made up to endure her anger or humiliation rather than allow her to suffer the consequences of a bad sleep. His arm reached out jostle her shoulder, fingers barely touching her skin, when she let out a gentle hum. Sherlock retracted his hand quickly. A small smile graced her lips and her head lolled to the side. She sighed in her sleep and Sherlock bit back a laugh when she gave a gentle snore.

Without thinking twice, he knelt beside her, placing his arms under her legs and shoulder and gently shifting her from the chair into his embrace. Cradling her close to his chest, he stood slowly, careful not to wake her. Her head found a home in the curve of his neck, her hair tickling his skin. The odd combination scent of lilies and cinnamon spice caressed his senses. He smiled and left the study, precious bundle in his arms.

As he carried her up the stairs, Molly stirred slightly and he froze.

'Mmmm,' she groaned sleepily. Sherlock held his breath, praying she'd go back to sleep. He wasn't prepared to address the situation of her in his arms. She shifted her head, but was clearly still mostly asleep, 'Sherlock? You home now?'

Her voice was rough and gravely, and yet it did something to Sherlock's chest, a now familiar tightening. Deciding to answer her, he whispered softly, 'Yes, Molly. I'm home.'

'Good,' she mumbled. 'Missed you.'

He smiled as his heart beat faster. 'I missed you, too, darling.'

'Mmm, darling. Like it.' She giggled in her sleep. Sherlock resumed his trek to her bedroom, carefully opening the door with the hand cradling her back, and gently setting her on her bed. He thought about removing her dressing gown, but the likelihood she would awaken in the process was high and he would rather not have _that _discussion. Pulling the blankets up around her to ward off the oncoming winter chill, he leaned down and gave her a soft kiss on the forehead. It was the first time he'd kissed her in any manner since their wedding and his heart was beating a chaotic rhythm from the feel of her skin against his lips.

With a tender smile, he whispered, 'Good night, my Molly.'

He turned to leave the room, and was about to close the door behind him when he heard a mumbled, 'G'night, Sh'rlock. Love you.'

His grin nearly split his face as he closed the door and wandered down the stairs.

_Not all hope is lost, after all. _


	13. A Change of Attitude

That small spark of hope fueled Sherlock to become more persistent in the pursuit of his wife's heart. Understanding now her hesitation, he sought to make it clear that she did, in fact, more than appeal to him aesthetically. Lingering touches when they passed in the hallway, salacious winking whenever he complimented her, and his gazes of tenderness and occasionally heated passion were witnessed quite often by the staff, some of whom were unable to resist spreading the news of Lord Holmes' thawing heart to the gossipmongers.

Convoluted word reached John Watson several days after he returned from a visit to his future bride in Kent. Curious and slightly horrified by the distorted information, he immediately made his way to Bakersfield.

'Ah, Doctor Watson, a pleasure,' George greeted him, ushering him inside and out of the London rain. 'Let me take your coat. Please, have a seat in the drawing room and I shall tell Lord Holmes you are here.'

No sooner had Watson settled himself then did Sherlock appear. 'Watson,' he barked in greeting, throwing himself unceremoniously onto the chair opposite his friend, his head tilted back and eyes closed.

'Sherlock,' Watson grinned, immediately setting about satiating his curiosity. 'What is this that my patient has told me about, you are publicly flaunting the sexual aspects of your marriage?'

Sherlock whipped his head down, shocked. 'What?' he growled.

'Apparently, it is common talk amongst the ton that you and your wife are engaging in indecent displays of affection.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes, 'For God's sake, is there nothing those vultures will not say in order to satisfy their incessant need for dramatics?'

Watson laughed, seeing a blush hike up his friend's neck. 'Your indignant feelings aside, Holmes, I know you well enough to believe there is a nugget of truth within their chattering.'

He laughed again when Sherlock's nose twitched in annoyance, a clear indication that Watson had deduced correctly.

'Must you take such pleasure in tormenting me?' Sherlock grumbled.

'Yes.'

They both grinned good-naturedly.

'How is your wife-to-be?' Sherlock inquired, not truly interested, but knowing it would be polite to ask.

'Miss Morstan is well, thank you. Almost as eager as I am for our marriage to begin,' Watson chuckled. A pained look crossed Sherlock's face and immediately Watson felt guilty. 'Forgive me, Holmes, that was thoughtless of me to say.'

Sherlock waved the apology away, turning his head to look out the window. Molly was out there, probably hiding away in her once-secret spot. He had not followed her since that day more than two weeks before, knowing that he intruded on a private place. But knowing that she was nearby, his racing mind calmed down and he relaxed.

'Has there been any progress in reconciliation?' Watson asked, tentatively.

'You mean, since the social?' Sherlock smiled ruefully. Watson grimaced, remembering the slapping scene and the aftermath of a Consulting Detective in his flat for the next three days. Perhaps he should not have brought up the subject.

But suddenly a pleased grin replaced the sardonic smile on his friend's face.

'What is it?' Watson asked, 'What has happened?'

'Hope, my friend,' Sherlock said cryptically. 'Hope has happened.'

* * *

While Sherlock was conversing with Watson, Molly was struggling with her conflicting feelings. Sherlock had been flirtatious and demanding since she returned almost three months previous, but it had felt forced. Since the social, however, when he had returned from his brief absence, his attitude had changed significantly.

No longer did he bark orders at her, demanding that she join him. Rather, he would find her, usually in the drawing room reading or writing a correspondence, and join her in quiet company. She would ignore his presence, until a tingling in her spine made her aware of his gaze. She would glance up and, instead of looking away, he would continue staring at her. The first time it happened, she had gasped slightly, a blush filling her cheeks and she swiftly lowered her eyes.

The next few instances, she held his gaze longer and he would slowly smile before she quickly broke away. Lately, though, he would already be smiling when she looked. And this latest incident, he had had the audacity to wink at her!

If that were not confusing enough to Molly, Sherlock was openly admiring her in front of the staff, complimenting her hair or her figure. More often though, he would not say anything, just walk up to her in what appeared to be a passing manner, but instead of moving around her, he would brush as closely as possible to her, his hand pressing lightly against her back. Every time he did it, her cheeks would heat and her heart would race until his presence was long gone.

Slowly her anger was melting, but she was too afraid to capitulate to Sherlock's machinations and let him win. Without love, their marriage would not survive, already having been broken almost beyond repair. _As long as he refuses to love me, I will never be his._

Her thoughts having turned all the more frustrating, her heart confused and tired of manipulation, Molly left the clearing. She began walking out of the woods, all the while wondering if she should visit Charlotte, for it had been some weeks since she had been to see her. As she wandered into the stables, she noticed Bennett unsaddling a familiar horse. _Doctor Watson is here. _

Her mind fully made up, she had the stable boy hitch her horse to the carriage and, having informed George of their departure, they were on their way to London, a gentle rain beginning to fall. A short while later, they pulled up to the Lestrades' and Molly hopped out, quickly rushing to the door, trying not to get too wet, as Bennett made his way to the stables.

Charlotte opened the door and pulled the young woman in, greeting her with a smile. 'Molly, dear. It has been too long.'

The women embraced and made their way, arm in arm, into the small drawing room. 'Tell me,' Charlotte began, 'What has brought you to London on this somewhat dreary day?'

'I merely wished to visit with a dear friend,' Molly smiled, happy to see a friendly face and forget her conundrum of a husband.

For the next several hours, the ladies conversed, sipping tea and nibbling on biscuits from Charlotte's hidden stash.

'If Gregory knew about these,' Charlotte laughed, 'I would forever be replenishing the supply. I made them for him once when we were first married and he ate the whole batch in one sitting.'

Molly let loose a wholly unladylike snort, giggling uncontrollably.

'So, these are a special treat for him. He thinks I bake them especially for him, whenever I feel like buttering him up, spending the whole afternoon slaving over a hot oven simply to make him happy,' she was now laughing so hard her words were disjointed, as Molly tried to control her own glee, 'I do not dare imagine what he would think if he knew I took five minutes and merely swiped a half dozen from a secret stockpile and warmed them in the oven a bit. On the days when I remember, I brush a bit of flour dust in my hair and on my cheek. He is an Inspector, after all!'

Their raucous laughter was interrupted by the opening of the front door and Gregory's voice calling out a greeting to his wife. Stifling their smiles, the women sought to gain their composure before he found them in a state of complete hilarity. His footsteps sounded outside the doorway and a moment later Gregory appeared.

'Hello, love,' he smiled at his wife. Turning to Molly, he bowed slightly in greeting, 'Lady Holmes, a pleasure to see you.' His eyes flicked to the plate on the table between them, the crumbs evidence of their indulgence. His quirked an eyebrow and smirked, 'I see you have dug into your stash of biscuits, my dear Charlotte. You shall have to make more on the morrow. It was awfully low this morning.'

Charlotte gasped in shock as Molly roared with laughter. 'Gregory Lestrade, you knew! You… you…' Charlotte struggled to find the words in her frustration.

''You clever, wonderful Inspector that I am proud to call my loving husband?'' Gregory suggested smugly, as he settled himself on the settee next to his pouting wife.

Her mirth abating, Molly smiled as she watched Charlotte cave to the flirtatious, silver-haired man pulling her close to his side, kissing her temple. The blonde woman closed her eyes, but managed to keep enough of her pout and slapped his knee in mock anger. 'Just for that, I refuse to bake any more until you have learned your lesson.'

'What lesson should I have learned from this? You were able to keep a secret supply of biscuits hidden in the linen cupboard behind that God-awful quilt set your mother gave us for a wedding present for all of three weeks. You are married to a Scotland Yard Inspector, love. I didn't miss the fact that the quilt shifted slightly every few days, nor the crumbs on the floor around the stove on the days you baked them.'

Charlotte huffed, 'So why didn't you tell me before?'

Gregory pulled her hand into his lap, gently massaging it with his own. 'I enjoyed the game. It was especially humorous when you pretended to make them for me and covered yourself with flour.'

Molly watched as Charlotte smiled fondly at her smirking husband, their eyes no longer haunted by the pain of their past, but filled with light and adoration.

_Someday, _she promised herself. _Someday I will have that. With or without Sherlock._


	14. To Share His Life

As the Fall season officially merged into a frigid Winter, Sherlock began to make progress in winning over his wife. Charlotte Lestrade was a staunch supporter of the Holmes' Reconciliation Project, as she'd dubbed it, meeting with Sherlock and Molly separately every few weeks. Sherlock was unaware Charlotte had confided in Molly about his visits. Oh, she was tight-lipped about what was specifically discussed, but she made sure Molly understood Sherlock was trying to fix their marriage. Molly was confused about the idea of Sherlock seeking advice, the Consulting Detective who knew everything and did not need her love.

But something deep inside of her sang a long-forgotten melody of hope at the thought of her husband humbling himself for her.

As the Winter grew harsher and Christmas mere weeks away, Molly lost herself in the festivities, joining in the decorating with the staff, even having a snowball fight with the younger servants. Her laugh filled the halls of Bakersfield once more and Sherlock found himself smiling at her joy.

Charlotte had been instrumental in his pursuit of Molly, her voice of admonishment in his head now preceding his saying anything hurtful to his wife. _She is fragile, Sherlock. Her heart has taken too much pain for you to even speak another careless word. And be patient. Once you have won her back, you will have all the time in the world to share in physical intimacies with her. Do not let the moment consume you, be stronger than your instincts and wait._

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in frustration as he stood at the window of his study. Waiting. He was not a man accustomed to long-suffering and the idea of not touching Molly was an aggravating one. Oh, not the physical intimacies only the boundaries of marriage permitted. That he could wait for, not forever, but he had been without for more than thirty years. He could put it off a while longer. But ever since he began his earnest pursuit of Molly, the touching and smiling and heated glances were painful. But only because he had to hold himself back. As time passed, it became harder to remove his hand from her waist as he passed by her. The locks of hair that refused to stay in her simple bun teased his hand mercilessly. He had had to remove himself from the drawing room on more than one occasion as Molly had drawn her lower lip between her teeth and his only other recourse besides leaving was to sweep her into his arm and take possession of her lips with his.

From his place at the window, he saw Molly crossing the snow covered garden, heading back to the manor. Her cheeks were red from the cold and her hair had come undone from its bindings, falling around her shoulders and sprinkled with flakes of the recently falling snow. Without a thought, Sherlock rushed to the front hall and opened the door grandly, greeting her with a wide smile. 'Missus Holmes, do come in.'

Molly giggled at his antics and his heart grew light. She shed her thick outerwear and began to pull her hair back into a bun. Sherlock shot a hand out and halted her movements. She looked at him curiously, lowering her arms.

He coughed lightly and mumbled, 'It is rather fetching when you wear it down,' before quickly turning around to hand her wet garments to a watching George. Molly blushed. He had been complimenting her more often, and was usually quite bold about it, but every once in a while when he did, well… she frowned… his actions and timidity reminded her of a young lad approaching the girl he was fond of.

She blinked in surprise at the thought.

Before she could dwell on it, Sherlock had looped her hand through his elbow and was guiding her to the drawing room.

'I thought that perhaps it was time we talked,' he stated. Molly felt her heart plunge and her eyes widened in fear.

Sherlock continued, not seeing the rapidly paling features of his wife as he left her standing by the doorway. He walked around the settee, choosing instead to sit in one of the chairs, his eyes closed and hands steepled under his chin. 'My work is important to me. I am the only Consulting Detective in the world, something that has been made difficult by the arrangement I have under the legal requirements of the inheritance my parents' left me. Should I leave Bakersfield, I forfeit my share.'

Molly remained rooted to the floor in shock. _He is leaving me, going back to North Gower Street and leaving me here to be an abandoned, forgotten wife. _Her breath came in short, sharp gasps and suddenly Sherlock was kneeling before her, grasping her forearms tightly.

'Molly, no, no, no, I was not, please don't think I am leaving you,' his face showed regret, but Molly could not focus on it. Desperately trying to catch her breath, black began crowding her vision and she clutched at Sherlock's shoulders, trying to remain upright.

'Breathe, Molly! Breathe deep through your nose,' he inhaled loudly with her, 'out through your mouth.' Together, they followed the pattern until Molly's breathing was normalized. Shaken by what he had seen, what he had caused, Sherlock swept her into his arms and placed her on the settee. Molly had gasped at the sudden movement, and her eyes were wide as Sherlock knelt beside her where she lay.

'Are you alright?' He reached a hand out as though to touch her face, but stopped and pulled it back almost hesitantly. Molly didn't say anything for a time, trying to discern what had happened.

'You've done that before,' she finally whispered.

Sherlock furrowed his brow, 'It was not my intention to cause another panic attack, although the last one was before we were even marr-'

'No, not that,' Molly interrupted. 'You've carried me before. Just after you disappeared for a time. I fell asleep in your study and woke up in my room, still in my dressing gown. I thought I had dreamt you carrying me. I assumed I had gone up by myself and was too exhausted to remember.'

She watched as a blush rose in her husband's cheeks. He turned his head away, almost too afraid to look at her. She reached out a hand and touched his cheek, 'Thank you. For then, and for now.'

'You are welcome,' he said, his voice hoarse. 'Although seeing as I caused this whole situation right now, I do not-'

'Just take it,' Molly chuckled. 'It was my own fault for jumping to conclusions without letting you explain. But now that it's all settled, you're not leaving, please explain for I wish to understand your purpose in bringing up North Gower Street.'

'Ah, yes. As you know, Doctor Watson intends to marry Miss Mary Morstan within the year. She will be moving into his home at 187 North Gower Street. Since our marriage, I have no longer been a resident of the flat, but have continued to pay for its expenses. Now that Doctor Watson will be wed, I have decided to concede the maintenance and such to him. Unfortunately, he has decided to erect several rules for his newly acquired residence. One is that I am no longer allowed to 'barge in without a moment's notice.' His words, not mine.'

Molly giggled at Sherlock's obvious frustration. He smirked at her, reveling in the small spark of light in her eyes.

'The other, however, is the more frustrating of the two. Because I am no longer in a position of financial authority over him, he has decided to limit the number of times I am allowed to coerce him into joining me on a case each week. Especially now that he is to be married.'

Molly reached out and pulled his hand into hers, offering a silent comfort. She knew how hard it was for Sherlock to make friends; if his manners toward his wife were any indication, it was a wonder Doctor Watson had endured this long. He squeezed her hand gently in gratitude.

'So that brings me to what I wanted to discuss with you, Molly.' He turned her hand over, so her palm rested in his, his thumb brushing delicately across her knuckles. 'I wonder if you would consider joining me on occasion. Certainly not on any case that could prove to be dangerous or entirely inappropriate for a lady, but-'

His words were choked as Molly leaned forward and brushed her lips against his cheek. Blushing madly when she pulled back, she smiled broadly, 'I'd be honored, Sherlock.'

His face frozen in shock, she began to withdraw her hand from his, but he held fast. The combination of the touch of her lips and her husky voice speaking his Christian name in happiness for the first time caused an emotional short circuit in Sherlock's mind. He felt her heart race under his fingertips and fought the desire to pull her back and kiss her properly. _Patience. _

He slowly loosened his hold her hand, not breaking her gaze.

Before letting go entirely, he lifted her fingertips to his lips and reverently kissed them.

Her breathing deepened and he smiled against her hand.

'I look forward to our first case, my dear.'


	15. The Detective and His Wife

Molly had fully expected Sherlock to wait a few days before bringing her along on a small case, perhaps a 3 or 4. So she was delightfully surprised when he rushed into the study the following day carrying her cloak and hat, rattling off at high speed the details of a day-old case Lestrade had requested assistance with. The details in the telegram described it as a complicated murder of a high-profile banker, a possible 9. The carriage prepared, he made sure her coat was fastened before hurrying her outside.

'A closed room, no windows and a locked door,' he grinned eagerly, looking out the small window as they were bounced about by the rocky road. 'One stab wound to the back and no sign of another person. Scotland Yard has already removed the victim to the morgue, where I will look it over later, the room, though, is the key element. I know it.' Molly smiled as she watched his eyes light up. _So this is Sherlock in his element. _He glanced at her, his smile falling fast.

'I apologize for my exuberance, Watson has often told me it is not appropriate to be excited by someone's unfortunate passing,' he mumbled, clearly not agreeing with the Doctor's assessment, but knowing that a proper lady like his wife would not be pleased.

To his utmost surprise, and pleasure, Molly chuckled, 'Oh, Mister Holmes,' she shook her head, adopting a small frown, 'it is unfortunate that someone has decided to end another's life, but it has happened. There is nothing we can do to give back the life that has been taken. But we can bring them peace in death through justice.'

Sherlock smiled at her, his heart swelling with affection.

'Now,' she straightened her back, folding her hands in her lap, 'I find the mystery of this intriguing. Who is the victim? And a locked room, you say? Ground floor or upper story? Was the murder weapon in the room with the deceased?'

'Ah, excellent questions,' Sherlock eagerly clapped his gloved hands together, beaming in pride, 'it would have taken Watson another hour to consider the location of the room.'

Molly blushed under his praise as he continued, 'Our victim, one Thomas Finnigan,' Molly's eyes widened in recognition of a well-known member of the ton, was found by a member of his staff, the cook, who had entered the closet to retrieve a fresh table covering. The weapon was in the outer room, near the door, possibly dropped in haste by our suspect. A long bread knife. The room itself is a small linen cupboard on the ground floor.'

'Why would a linen cupboard be locked?' Molly questioned.

Proud of her inquiries, Sherlock smirked, 'That is what I would like to know.'

They both lurched forward as Bennett pulled the carriage to a stop outside of an intimidating row of townhomes. Sherlock helped Molly down, then led her inside where a half dozen Scotland Yard Inspectors were standing about talking to various upset servants.

Lestrade stood in the far corner, talking with another Inspector. He looked up at their entrance and, excusing himself, walked over to the Holmes'.

'Sherlock,' he nodded. 'Lady Holmes, I am sorry to see you under such circumstances.'

'Hello Inspector,' Molly smiled gently. She had been to visit the Lestrades' often in the past seven months, leaning on Charlotte's assurance that Sherlock was truly trying to change and Gregory's advice that starting to trust Sherlock in the little things were the first steps toward forgiving him.

Molly was torn between holding on to her anger and hurt, so when Sherlock failed she would be justified, and capitulating to his seduction of her heart. For she wanted to give in, oh, how she wanted to forgive him. But if she did and allowed him to make her his wife in full, then she would be made the fool when he cast her aside. She knew it was wrong to be bitter, to withhold herself from her husband. Society enforced a procreating marriage system, not one based in love. But ever since his harsh words so long ago, Molly could not stop imagining him with another woman, sending his seductive glances her way and wrapping her in his embrace.

Lestrade pulled her back from her thoughts as he took her by the elbow and guided her through the hall to the kitchen. 'I was not a proponent of Holmes bringing you along, Molly. But the infuriating man insisted, so we may as well make the most of your presence.'

Sherlock nearly growled at the Inspector for his words or maybe for the fact that he was touching Molly. Sherlock wasn't sure, but before he knew it, he had forcefully removed his wife from Lestrade's grasp and looped her arm through his own. Lestrade was shocked at first, but then grinned smugly at Molly's blushing face and Sherlock's possessive hold.

'All right, then,' Lestrade tried to stop smiling as he pulled open the door to a small cupboard. After all, it wouldn't do to be happy at a crime scene, even Sherlock knew that, though he often forgot to put it into practice. 'Here is where the murder took place. As you can see, no windows, a locked door, what can you tell me?'

Still holding Molly to his side, Sherlock pushed past the Inspector and flicked his gaze around the small room, deducing everything in a matter of seconds.

'Why is it locked? It is a simple linen cupboard,' Molly asked.

As Lestrade opened his mouth, Sherlock interrupted. 'Clearly, Mister Finnigan was hiding something of great value in here. The question is, what was it?'

'The only persons to hold a key to the door were himself and the cook, no other staff,' Lestrade said. 'The cook had her key with her at the market during the time of Mister Finnigan's murder, as witnessed by several merchants. She arrived home late and was rushing about to fix dinner when she found his body. Mister Finnigan's key was on his person.'

Nothing stood out to Sherlock, so he turned to Lestrade and demanded, 'I shall need to see the body.'

'I'd say that would be fairly obvious, Holmes,' Lestrade frowned. 'But is there nothing in here that could indicate how the murderer left?'

'The body, Lestrade,' Sherlock snapped. Molly squeezed his arm in gentle reproof and he glanced down at her disapproving frown. He sighed and turned back to Lestrade, 'Apologies, Inspector. Until I see the body, none of my deductions will be complete. I shall leave Molly here to wait, a dead body is not appropriate for a lady.'

'But a crime scene is?' Lestrade retorted, clearly still not favorable of Molly's presence. When Sherlock sent him a deadly glare, Lestrade rolled his eyes and gestured to have Molly precede him from the room. 'Very well. Lady Holmes, if you would.'

Settling Molly in the drawing room amidst the Inspectors and servants, Lestrade and Holmes left for the morgue. Molly sat watching for a time, glancing around at the staff, many of whom would now most likely be without employment. A petite woman in the far corner caught Molly's attention. The young woman was sitting alone, nobody speaking with her, and she did not seem very upset by her sudden loss of position.

Molly moved over to speak with her, sitting on a chair across from the stranger. 'Hello.'

The woman raised her eyebrows and said hesitantly, 'hello.'

'My name is Molly Holmes, what is yours?'

'Miranda. Miranda Wilkes, I am, I mean, was, Mister Finnigan's maid,' the woman replied, her hands trembling in her lap. Molly smiled compassionately, trying to ease the younger woman's nerves.

'I'm so sorry, dear. Is there anything I can bring you? A glass of water or cup of tea?' Molly offered.

Miranda shook her head, lowering her eyes.

'Have you worked here long?' Molly reached out and grasped her hand, giving it an encouraging squeeze.

'Almost two years, ma'am. Ever since Mister Finnigan moved to London.'

They sat in silence for a minute, Molly observing the way Miranda bit her lip in nervousness and the panicky flit of her watery eyes around the room every so often. Molly scooted closer and lowered her voice.

'Miranda, is there something you know about what happened?'

Miranda swallowed thickly, her eyes widening in fear. Molly smiled gently, 'There is nothing to fear about speaking up. If you know something, don't be afraid to tell me or one of the Inspectors.'

Lip trembling, Miranda nodded, gathering her courage. With a deep breath, she whispered breathlessly, 'For the past month, Mister Finnigan has been acting strangely, going about at unseemly hours, receiving mysterious telegrams that he reads then burns, and once, last week, I was cleaning his desk and came across a stack of papers, a record book of sorts, and he walked in. I've never been so terrified in life, ma'am. He cursed at me, knocking everything about, and nearly threw me out of the house. He apologized the next day, but I fear he was into something criminal.'

Molly absorbed the information. _Was Finnigan murdered by a criminal associate?_ Before Molly could decide what to do, Lestrade and Sherlock burst through the front door.

'Are you going to tell me what you meant by that, Holmes?' Lestrade demanded. Sherlock ignored him, looking around the room before his eyes landed on Molly. He quickly swept over to her and, with a nod to Miranda, pulled Molly to her feet and about near dragged her down the hall.

'Sherlock!' Molly exclaimed, surprised at his sudden actions. He led them to the kitchen where he unceremoniously sat Molly in a chair. She let out a surprised _oomph _at the sudden action.

'Hush, Molly, I need to concentrate,' Sherlock opened the cupboard door once more, stepping inside and examining the shelves.

Molly huffed, 'And manhandling me helped your concentration, how?'

Sherlock whipped his head out of the cupboard, his peripheral acknowledging the arrival of Lestrade. 'I did not intend to manhandle you. I simply…' he trailed off, ears burning red in embarrassment.

'You simply, what?' Molly demanded.

With an annoyed flick of his gaze to Lestrade, Sherlock mumbled, 'I simply concentrate better when you are nearby.'

_Oh. _Stunned speechless, Molly felt her heart beat chaotically, her entire face flushing. She lowered her head in embarrassed pleasure, biting her lip in order to not smile too widely at his admission. Sherlock, despite his discomfiture, felt an immense surge of pride at her reaction and his annoyance faded as he smiled.

Lestrade observed all this with the grin of a proud father. _He's finally getting it right._

Noticing Lestrade's smugness, Sherlock's smile immediately faded and he grumbled, 'May I return to solving this case?'

'Oh, of course, by all means, please,' Molly stammered.

Pulling out a well-worn magnifying glass, Sherlock began inspecting the shelves in close detail, moving slowly around the small room. He stopped when he made full circle, examining the hinge of the door. He frowned and pressed his finger against the cool metal. Suddenly, he knelt down and began going over the floorboards.

Waiting, Molly turned to Lestrade. 'I suppose I should tell you what I gleaned from one of the maids.'

'Any information could be pertinent,' Lestrade responded, rounding the table and taking the seat across from her.

'Miranda Wilkes, the maid, I spoke with her for a bit. She seemed to be under the impression that for the past month, Mister Finnigan was involved in some illicit activities.'

Lestrade quirked an eyebrow. 'Oh? What made her believe that?'

'Strange comings and goings, he would burn certain telegrams that arrived, and he was viciously private about a record book.'

Lestrade hummed and was about to rise and speak with this maid when Sherlock suddenly let out a triumphant shout. Molly and Lestrade jumped up and hovered in the doorway as Sherlock used his hands to pry up a loose floorboard, reaching his arm down into the crevice and pulling out a portfolio. 'The record book Molly referred to,' he grinned victoriously. 'I am sure that this is why Mister Finnigan was killed.'

Lestrade took the book and laid it on the table. Inside were a plethora of papers, numbers and names running down every page. 'What do they mean?'

'I am certain that these are the names of Mister Finnigan's victims.' Sherlock declared.

'What?' Molly and Lestrade cried out at the same time.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, 'Isn't it obvious?'

'No,' Molly grinned while Lestrade resisted the urge to punch the taller man. Sherlock blinked. _Right, not obvious. Must explain. _

'Well, Mister Finnigan, as a banker, has significant access to the records of his clients. Since he arrived, he has been using his position to blackmail his clients, under an anonymous identity, of course. He was careful and quite clever. Sending his victims unmarked letters, he would have them make regular deposits into a bank account under his false name. Being a banker, he would have unfettered access to it without arousing suspicion. No one would suspect him, the man who assisted them in making the payments. Brilliantly executed.'

'And the murderer?' Lestrade asked, silently impressed with Sherlock's deductions.

'It's-'

'Really, Lestra-'

Molly and Sherlock both spoke at the same time. Molly blushed and mumbled, 'Sorry, do go on.'

'No, please,' Sherlock encouraged, wanting to solve the case and impress his wife, but knowing he should let her speak her thoughts first, 'what were you saying?'

_Bloody hell, the man is in love. Why else would he pass up an opportunity to hear his own voice solve a crime? _Lestrade thought in amusement.

Embarrassed at suddenly being put on the spot, Molly cleared her throat. 'Well, it's him, isn't it? Mister Finnigan killed himself.'

Lestrade gaped at her in confusion. Sherlock simply stared, astounded. Of all the things he thought she was going to say, identifying the murderer, and correctly, was not it.

Molly grew uncomfortable under their silent stares. 'Of course it's wrong, I'm sorry. A ridiculous assumption, I'll just-'

She turned to leave, but Sherlock's hand shot out and grasped her arm. 'No, wait. Explain.'

Molly blinked. Explain what? That she made a stupid assumption? Growing angry, she clenched her jaw and hissed, 'Fine.'

Refusing to sound embarrassed, although God only knew she was mortified, she steadied her voice and locked eyes with Sherlock. 'Mister Finnigan had been successfully running his blackmail scam for two years. One month ago, he began acting strange, much like a blackmail victim would; paranoid, burning mysterious telegrams. It's likely someone learned of his scheme and wanted a share of the profits, ironically blackmailing the blackmailer.'

'That doesn't explain why he would kill himself. Why not kill the person blackmailing him?' Lestrade interjected.

'Shut up,' Sherlock snapped. 'Please, Molly, continue.'

She glared at him, sure he was mocking her, but she continued anyway. 'I believe he killed himself from shame and despair.'

'What?!' Lestrade laughed, incredulous.

'Well, it makes sense,' Molly stammered, flushing as she shifted her gaze to the floor. 'I had only met the man briefly at a social last year, but from what I heard, he was a very proud man.' She glanced at Sherlock. 'Perhaps his blackmailing scheme was about to unravel, something that would destroy the empire of power he had built and put him on the next ship to the Americas. He was distraught, mentally unstable, perhaps in the midst of depression. But instead of running or confessing, he committed suicide, but in such a way that it would not appear cowardly, placing the blame on an unknown suspect.'

At the end of her speech, silence descended. Lestrade was absolutely confounded, 'But how could he possibly stab himself in the back?'

Molly froze._ How did he kill himself? It would have been impossible to stab himself in the back._ She gulped._ Oh, what a fool I've made of myself. Of course he didn't commit suicide! Why did I open my-_

Sherlock's even baritone broke through her recriminations. 'Simple.'

Lestrade blinked.

'What?' Molly gaped.

Sherlock looked between the two of them and smiled, 'Simple. Observe.' They moved to the cupboard where Sherlock fingered the hinge of the door. 'See here, the indentations?

Molly and Lestrade squinted, trying to see what Sherlock was gesturing to. He rolled his eyes and whipped out his magnifying glass, holding it up the hinge. Now they were able to make out minute grooves along the top of the hinge.

'Mister Finnigan took the knife and slid it over the top of the door and down between the frame and the door. Then he closed the door, locking it and the knife into place, the blade extending inside the cupboard, the handle on the other side. The cook was in such a hurry, she either did not notice the handle or disregarded the oddity upon finding her employer dead.'

'So, what,' Lestrade sneered, 'Finnigan backed up into the blade?'

'Yes,' Sherlock stated blandly. 'The wound was between his shoulder blades, high and slightly to the left. Taking into account his height, the location of the wound will match the height of the top of this hinge. He stabbed himself and expired rather quickly. When the cook unlocked the door and swung it open, the weight of the handle combined with the sudden movement caused the blade to fall into the outer room. A nearly perfect suicide disguised as murder.'

Lestrade gaped at the two Holmes'. _Unbelievable. _The theory was too preposterous to believe, but all the facts lined up.

'Well done, then. We'll check the details, but since you are rarely wrong, I'll assume you will want to leave us to the tedious details.'

Sherlock smirked and, with a quick farewell, he and Molly made their way out, leaving the Inspectors to do the remaining work.

As they walked down toward the city stables, Sherlock grinned down at his wife. 'You were exceptional in there, Molly.'

Molly felt her cheeks grow hot under his praise. 'Thank you,' she said softly.

'It is not often I am surprised, but you have managed to do so numerous times in the past seven months. Today was perhaps the first time I have been pleased about that.' He cleared his throat, his voice lowering in pitch, 'I am sorry, Molly, for underestimating you. You have a brilliant mind that, although is not equal to mine,' Sherlock grinned when he saw Molly smirk, 'is certainly far above that of most men.'

Tilting her head to look at him, Molly felt a flash of long-denied affection for her husband. Suddenly feeling brave, she withdrew a hand from her muff and looped her arm through his. Sherlock stumbled a bit in shock, but when Molly leaned into his side, her cheek brushing his coat and her arm holding tight to his, he felt a warmth course through his body despite the bitter winter wind. He placed his other hand atop hers and with shy smiles, they continued home.

_Slowly but surely, Molly, I'm winning back your love. _


	16. A Night to Remember

Fiddling a lively Christmas tune, Sherlock smiled as Molly and George hung fresh garland along the fireplace mantle in the drawing room. The faithful butler grinned fondly at the lady of the house and reached over to pluck a pine needle from her bun, eliciting a bright laugh from the woman. Her eyes caught Sherlock's and, if possible, her smile grew brighter.

They had been making significant progress, Sherlock thought. Molly had accompanied him on no less than three cases a week for the past month, each time proving her brilliance and making Sherlock fall deeper in love. Yes, it was true. The great Sherlock Holmes had admitted his humanity, his heart stolen by a slip of a woman.

And he wanted hers in return. Finally understanding that he loved her, he had been waiting for an entire week for the perfect moment to kiss her. And the wait was tortuous.

Now that Christmas was almost upon them, she asked that they spend more time enjoying the holiday season at home, preparing for the party Christmas Eve. With three days to go, the manor was decked in an overwhelming abundance of festive foliage. Sherlock inwardly sneered at the sight, but the flickering light in his wife's eyes made him bite his tongue.

There was one holiday tradition that Sherlock wanted to put into practice, though.

Mistletoe.

He had placed surreptitious boughs of the stuff in every archway of the manor, hoping to be caught under one with Molly and finally kiss her. Unfortunately, there was never an appropriate moment and Sherlock was getting frustrated. Even when he was dallying with Irene Adler, he had never felt the overwhelming desire to touch her, to know that she was real and beside him. With Irene, it had been infatuation combined with adolescent rebellion that led him to fool around with her. But she was gone, happy in her wealth, and Sherlock did not give her another thought.

But with Molly, it was all he could do to not come up behind her, circle his arms around her middle, and bury his face in her neck, refusing to let her leave his embrace.

With a flourish, Sherlock swept his bow across the strings and took a bow, pleased by Molly's applause. Apparently, George had already left the room.

'Wonderful, Sherlock,' Molly beamed. 'Will you play another?'

He set his violin aside and walked toward her, 'Perhaps later this evening. For now, Missus Holmes, I daresay it is time you entertained me.'

'Wh-what?' Molly stuttered, eyes wide.

Sherlock took her hands and, walking backwards, pulled her over to the pianoforte. 'I know for a fact that when I am away, this piano has been played by an accomplished hand. Your hand, my dear. And I would very much like to hear a piece.' He gave her his most charming smile, the wrinkles around his eyes pulling at her heartstrings.

With a fond smile, Molly relented. 'All right, but just one. Any requests?'

Sherlock winked, 'Surprise me.'

A blush on her face from her husband's close presence, leaning against the top of the instrument, Molly lifted her hands and gently placed them on the familiar ivory bars. She took a deep breath and began a slow rendition of a holiday hymn. Her confidence grew and, forgetting that Sherlock was watching, her fingers began to fly over the keys, shifting into a lively melody.

Sherlock watched in awe as Molly proved that she was not merely an accomplished pianist, but one who could easily hold her own against the concert hall masters. Her eyes were alight with that flickering spark he'd been noticing more often; like moonlight, reflecting something inside of her that Sherlock had nearly destroyed.

Her fingers slowed and she finished the piece with a sad smile, 'That was always my favourite to play at Christmas.'

'Why have you not played it for me before?' Sherlock wished he could take it back, but the words were out there. Molly lowered her gaze to the hands folded in her lap.

'I did not believe it would be appreciated, Mister Holmes,' she said quietly.

Sherlock pushed off the piano and sat backwards on the bench beside her, his right side to hers. 'I am sorry, Molly.'

Molly sniffed, 'I know. I know you are.' She lifted her head and turned to him, smiling.

Sherlock returned her smile and reached out, lifting one of her slender hands to his lips. 'You are a very talented pianist. I would very much enjoy _watching_ you play again.'

Molly blinked in surprise at his choice of words and emphasis. _Watch me. Not hear me, watch me. _Before she could control them, her thoughts began running in a direction she'd avoided for so long. _Does that mean he finds me attractive? Or is it the game, him trying to seduce me and win? But what if he finally does have feelings for me? Charlotte said that he had made a remarkable change during their latest meetings, but what kind of change? We've been getting along better, I'd even dare to say we're friends. But friendship may not lead to love. And I don't know if I could bear it if he would never love me. Has he changed his mind about pursuing me and now just wants to have a complacent marriage, without intimacy or affection? Or has he decided to let me leave, knowing he will never love me?_

So consumed by her thoughts, Molly didn't notice Sherlock frowning at her. He saw the expression of confusion and fear on her face and, wanting to prevent her from thinking too much, _a failing of hers, as well as most human beings, but Molly should be beyond doubts of my affection by now, _he placed a finger under her chin and tilted her face to his.

Molly's eyes grew wide in fear at the look in his eyes, to Sherlock's disbelief. _Molly, I love you, don't keep doubting me._ She turned away quickly from the intensity of his gaze and stood to leave.

Sherlock reached out and encircled his wife's wrist, halting her flight. 'Molly,' his deep timbre set a shiver down her spine. 'Please do not run from me.'

Molly tried to calm her heart, feeling Sherlock's fingers hold tight to her pulse. He pulled her back down next to him on the bench, trying to catch her eyes as she adamantly refused to lift her face. His other hand reached out and lifted her chin gently, caressing her cheek as he brushed a lock of hair behind her ear.

Her breath hitched and her brown eyes, so ordinary in appearance but hiding a clever mind, widened greatly at his smoldering look. He smiled gently as his gaze flicked down to her lips and back. He leaned down, cupping the back of her neck and pulling her closer.

Her shaky breath blew across his mouth and he felt warm in anticipation. Just as he was about to touch his lips to hers, she turned her head sharply, his kiss landing on the apple of her cheek.

Growling slightly, he leaned back. Her eyes stared straight ahead, filled with tears.

'Every time,' she whispered. 'Every time, you do this. I think I have come to accept only friendship from you and there you are, looking at me like that…'

'Like what?' Sherlock intoned, huskily.

Molly closed her eyes in defeat, 'Like you love me.'

Before Sherlock could speak, she continued, 'And it is like fire. Warm and passionate and consuming, but I know, I just know that if I let you win, I will be burned, like before.'

'I have changed, Molly,' Sherlock said, his tone hurt. 'Our path travels in only one direction; looking to the past will do nothing to change it.'

'But if I forget what has happened, then I will find that history is repeating itself. We will fall into our former habits and I will once again be burned,' Molly whispered.

'Have I not proven my friendship? Showered you with my affection? Embraced you with my devotion? Were my attempts to win your heart enough?' Sherlock growled, frustrated at her lack of understanding.

_Oh, Sherlock, if you loved me it would be enough. But devotion and affection are fleeting feelings without love to ground them. _'If I say yes, I fear I will fall into an abyss of my own making. Your affection is obvious, but I have been witness to your deceitfulness before and my heart cannot bear it again.'

'So you do not believe me to be sincere?'

'I cannot,' Molly choked out, her lips trembling.

Sherlock felt his body grow cold in fear, 'Have I truly lost any chance to win your love?'

'You have always had my love, Sherlock, and you will always be my dearest friend. But that is not enough to sustain a marriage. I have forgiven you for all your trespasses. But now my heart is empty, I have nothing more to give. I am tired, Sherlock. Tired of trying to convince myself that I will be enough for you. Tired of falling for your seductions again and again, only to find myself more in love with you and further away from having you.'

Sherlock stood, his anger over his failure to convince her of his sincerity turning his voice frigid, 'Then consider yourself free from this marriage.'

It was only after she had fled the room in silent tears that he felt his anger ebb away, numbness freezing his very being.

_I have lost her._


	17. The Aftermath of Our Choices

Luggage settled atop a rented carriage and a line of shivering, solemn servants bidding an unexpected farewell to their former Lady, Molly turned to face Bakersfield Manor one last time. Clouds covered the sky, but the setting Sun broke through and cast deep red bands across the place she would call home no more. The day had begun so perfectly, her heart high in festivity and friendship. Now, there were no words to describe the weight that plagued her heart, sorrow breaking through every heartstring.

She knew the failure of their marriage was the fault of both of them. Her expectations of someday having his love had put undue pressure on him, made it a challenge to win her over without loving her. _I might have been happy with just his friendship. But then he had to manipulate my heart again, looking at me like that, trying to kiss me. Perhaps it will be easier to move on, though, not having shared any intimacies of any kind._

A shadow in an upper window caught her eye and she lifted her gaze, her heart breaking anew as she locked eyes with Sherlock, his scowl clear to see. Lowering her eyes, Molly turned away.

_Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes._

* * *

Sherlock turned from the window as Molly fondly embraced her former servants, a clear sign of her humility and kindness. His heart cracked at the knowledge that he had failed to appreciate the gift he had been given and that his own cruel, thoughtless actions had lost her to him.

He wandered down the hallway, stopping outside Molly's bedroom. Heavy-hearted, he opened the door and entered the room. Nothing was left of her, all signs of Molly's presence packed away and gone. The canvas bag that hung from her chair was absent, her hairbrush and mirror no longer adorned the empty table; the room felt barren and cold.

Like Sherlock's heart.

As he turned to leave, his eyes caught sight of a slip of parchment, folded and placed upon the bedside table. He picked it up, heart pounding with a familiar, indescribable feeling. Slowly, he opened the note.

_I will always love you, Sherlock. Goodbye._

Like a crashing wave upon the shore, the tight feeling in Sherlock's chest exploded. With a hoarse cry, he dropped to his knees, crumpling the note in his fist. Through gritted teeth, he groaned, desperate to alleviate the suffocating ache growing in his chest, realizing what had been plaguing him all along.

Despair.

* * *

The following morning, a frantic Watson, upon receiving an urgent message from Bennett, had rushed to Bakersfield. George ushered him in from the cold and immediately pointed upstairs.

'He has not come out of her room since she left last evening,' the faithful butler seemed torn between being concerned about Lord Holmes and allowing himself to grieve the absence of the soon-to-be-former Lady Holmes. Not even taking his coat off, Watson took the stairs two at a time, rushing into the far bedroom. His heart plunged at the miserable sight before him; a grim-faced, dejected Consulting Detective sitting with his back to the wall, his arms curled tightly around his knees, staring vacantly across the bed before him.

Silently, Watson crouched beside him and placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, rousing him from his stupor. Sherlock looked at him, sorrow etched into every line on his face, and sighed.

'She left.'

In those two words, Watson heard a chorus of pain and heartbreak. He only nodded and gripped Sherlock's shoulder in sympathy.

'I was wrong.'

'About what?' Watson asked.

'Feelings, sentiment. It's not a chemical defect. I find that it's not chemical at all. It is physical.'

Watson tilted his head in confusion.

Sherlock continued, his voice even, but tinged with pain, 'There is no other explanation for the crushing pain in my chest and the feeling here,' he laid a hand over his heart, fisting the fabric of his shirt, 'that is what one must feel if someone were to carve out the heart.'

'How could she have doubted me still?' Sherlock rasped, honestly confused.

Watson breathed in deeply, 'In truth, Sherlock, you destroyed her trust in you a long time ago. No, don't deny it.' He frowned, as Sherlock tried to interject indignantly. 'You know you did, and trust is something easily destroyed, and nearly impossible to rebuild.'

'But everything I've done for her these past seven months, why did it not make a difference? Has not enough time passed for us to move on?' He gulped, blinking quickly, 'I thought it was the perfect moment.' If his deep voice cracked on the last word, neither man acknowledged it.

'Perhaps she was afraid that it was a deception.'

Sherlock shifted his gaze to the window, 'She admitted as much, but surely my affections should have persuaded her I was in earnest.'

Watson paused. He narrowed his eyes in thought and turned his head toward his friend, 'Sherlock, does she know that you love her?'

'Of course,' Sherlock snapped. 'Why would I act like a fool if I did not?'

Watson groaned in frustration, raking a hand through his short hair, 'You never told her, did you?'

'As you have often said, John, actions are more convincing than-'

'Shut up, you daft fool!' Watson yelled. 'You cannot assume she would know that your feelings had changed to love without actually telling her! Bloody hell, you spent several months acting like a flirtatious fool without meaning it, what would make her think this was any different?'

Closing his eyes against his friend's ranting, Sherlock retreated into thought, standing in the hallway of his Mind Palace. Facing him, clad in a familiar crimson gown, stood Molly. Her eyes were alight with love, something he had not seen in months, her cheeks flushed and her smile wide.

Why did you leave me?

_You know why._

John claims it is because you did not know that I love you. Surely you knew. How could you not?

_Did you ever tell me?_

Why must it be spoken? 'Love' is such a complicated word. People throw it about without meaning it, others claim to love then leave without care, while even more give no thought to loving more than one in an intimate and deceptive manner. Don't my actions and displays of affection prove that you are my heart, the only woman I want, more than a simple word?

_It is not complicated to me, Sherlock. Love is simple. It is humanity that makes it complicated. When I fell in love with you, it did not make me immune to your cruelty, it did not make me ignorant of other men. Love is not some magic feeling. It is a choice. _

A choice?

_I chose to love you and only you. There are many things about you that are attractive to me, physically, that is. But if I did not love you, would I have put up with your callousness just because you are handsome?_

I… suppose not. So you chose to love me despite my shortcomings?

_That is something you will have to ask me._

I am asking you.

_The real me, silly. You've simply been talking to yourself, seeing as I'm a part of your mind._

So how did I know you chose to love me?

_Oh, Sherlock. Don't you remember?_

* * *

His eyes snapped open. He was still in Molly's room, the afternoon sun warming the floors, Watson having dozed off against the wall some time earlier. The servants were bustling about in grim silence, their footfalls gentle in the surrounding rooms. Sherlock jumped up and raced from the room, stumbling down the stairs and into the study. Frantically, he scanned the bookshelves, cursing under his breath.

_Where is it? Where is it?! _

Pulling out a particularly large volume, he opened the cover, smiling triumphantly. Nestled in the hollowed book, was a leather a journal. Molly's journal, forgotten in the emotional upheaval of the day.

Clever, clever Molly. Hiding a book within a book, in plain sight. He was proud of her accomplishment, for it had taken him some time to notice the out-of-place volume, its spine uncracked and the lack of dust around it while the rest of the books on the shelf were covered in a light coating. He knew she had first kept it in the clearing, having seen her shove it into a rather clever hiding spot in the tree all those months ago. When he had gone back the next day, he pulled it out and began to read, learning about his wife.

Unfortunately, Molly had decided to come back as well and Sherlock found himself in a similar position as Molly had been the day before, having hastily replaced the journal. She eyed him warily and must have suspected that he had read it, for when he returned a while later, the journal was missing. He knew she moved it to the study, but the cold shoulder she gave him, even more than usual, indicated that reading it would be a fatal error. So he, for once, respected her unspoken wish.

Now, he needed answers. And the forgotten journal was the key. He flipped open the book to where he had last read, the day before she had run, his eyes hungrily devouring her words.

**Perhaps it is best for the both of us were I to leave. A marriage of convenience. How ironic that it was quite the opposite for the both of us. Sherlock was saddled with a hindrance of a wife, and I fell in love with the one man who will never return my feelings.**

**Fell in love. What a ridiculously romantic idea. But that is the only accurate description I can imagine. It was sudden, like being thrust under icy water, the very breath stolen from my chest. I suppose I should have known better, allowing my attraction to him to grow. **

**But I rather think that I enjoy loving him. He is a brilliant man, generous in his intelligence. Why else would he solve crimes when he could just as easily use his acumen to make himself a criminally wealthy man? **

**I suppose this is my choice. To love him. For all his failings, despite his belief that he is infallible (which is a failing in and of itself) I see the goodness in him. It's in the way he smiles when he thinks no one is watching, his eyes softening. I often wonder what he thinks about. Despite what he has convinced himself, he has a heart and it is as tender as any other man's. Perhaps this is why he has tried to bury it beneath logic and science. **

**To love a man with a heart so guarded is not easy. But I would not choose any other for his goodness is seen in the way he guards his it, sharing it with only those who are worthy. He is not easily swayed by a pretty face or a charismatic man, but I see the warmth in his rapport with Doctor Watson and know that when Sherlock allows himself to indulge in friendship, the bond is forged in steel.**

**God-willing, our marriage will someday grow a similar bond. But I cannot wait for him to come to me. I thought I was obvious in displaying my intrigue about his cases and experiments, even being so bold as to leave my spectacles upon his desk. But perhaps it was too subtle. Nevertheless, it is time I stopped waiting for Sherlock to come to me, I shall make my stance on the state of our marriage clear. **

**And there is nothing more obvious than speaking plainly. **

**I shall do it this very evening. Before my courage fails me.**

Sherlock blinked at her words. He was some kind of-

_Idiot? _

Molly interrupted, dragging him into the light-filled hall of his Mind Palace.

_'There is nothing more obvious than speaking plainly.' _

I should have told her.

_So tell her now. It may not be too late._

(A deep ache of loss and fear spread across his chest at her words.)

This, this pain is exactly why I refused to acknowledge sentiment. Only a fool would willingly subject himself to this misery.

_But if you had me, wouldn't the pain be worth playing a fool?_

But I don't have you. The real Molly is gone and I shall have to remain with this agony.

_Then stop wallowing and fix this._

I've tried! And you still left!

_But I left without knowing everything. Tell me you love me before I close the door on you once and for all._

…and if you still do not believe me?

_Am I not worth the risk?_

And so Sherlock ran.


	18. From the Ruins of Our Hearts

'Please, let me speak with her,' Sherlock pleaded, his face to shedding its icy mask to show the true pain and fear he felt.

Matthias Hooper watched in pity as his son-in-law stood almost defeated in the front hall, boots covered in icy slush and mud, his coat flapping open to reveal a haphazardly-buttoned shirt. His eyes were wide and desperate, his normally endearingly ruffled curls now frizzed and wild from his raking hand and the wind as he raced his horse across London from Bakersfield.

* * *

When Molly had arrived on his doorstep the evening before, accompanied by all her earthly belongings, Matthias felt his heart break. She did not explain, the evidence was plain to see. She had left Sherlock once and for all. Crushing her to his chest as her calm façade shattered, Matthias pulled her out of the cold, gesturing behind her back to the butler to bring some hot tea.

With cup of tea and a woolen blanket wrapped around her body, Molly sat in silence with unfettered tears trickling down her pale cheeks. The hour grew late and Matthias watched as her emotionally drained body started to droop. He stood and pulled her to her feet, leading her to her former bedroom. The maid had quickly rushed about when Molly arrived, placing extra blankets upon the bed and starting a fire in the abandoned hearth.

Pulling a nightdress from her bag, Matthias laid it out on the bed, as Molly stood mutely by the warm blaze, watching him. He turned to her, compassion and concern in his eyes.

She walked over to him and hugged him tightly.

He rubbed her back soothingly before pulling away, 'I am sorry, Molly.' He cupped her cheek, an expression of fond concern on his face.

'Perhaps someday,' she smiled tremulously, 'I shall find someone who requites my love.'

Matthias saw sorrowful resignation in her eyes. He knew how Sherlock felt about her, but until the boy understood his own feelings and told her, Matthias could not be able to convince her. He could only watch as his daughter resigned herself to a failed marriage and a likely future of spinsterhood.

* * *

Seeing Sherlock the next morning, desperate and afraid, did wonders for hope in Matthias' heart. _Please, God, let him be here to end this, to finally tell her what she needs to hear. _Knowing that this might be Molly's last chance for happiness with Sherlock, Matthias nodded and jerked his head in the direction of the stairs, giving the detective his wordless blessing. The frown still on his face, though, to communicate to the man that should he fail to repair the damage he'd caused, he would no longer be welcome to see Molly. Sherlock nodded in understanding and flew up the stairs, ripping off his coat and tossing it behind him.

When he got to the top, Sherlock hesitated. He knew which door led to Molly's former bedroom, but the gravity of the situation fully hit him as he stared down the hall. If he messed this up, any hope for his marriage would be gone. He approached the bedroom slowly, tentatively. Gulping audibly, he stood before the closed door and raised a shaking fist, rapping gently three times.

'Yes?' Her voice was muffled from behind the door, he detected a slightly higher pitch than normal, no doubt from crying. His chest tightened and his mouth ran dry. 'Father?' She sounded closer and clearer. Before Sherlock could speak, she had opened the door. He stared down at her shocked, tear-stained face for all of three seconds, before she hiccuped a sob and slammed the door shut once more.

'Molly, wait' he finally managed to call out. 'Please let me in, I need to speak with you.'

'We have nothing more to discuss with one another, Mister Holmes. Please leave,' her voice started strong, but Sherlock heard the catch of a sob when she uttered his name. He ignored the sudden surge of fear as she uttered his formal name, despair climbing like ivy up the outer walls of his Mind Palace, shaking the foundations and spreading darkness into every room.

He leaned his forehead against the wood frame, sighing heavily. 'Molly, please. There is something you need to know.'

Silence followed. Whether she was listening or ignoring him, Sherlock gathered his thoughts and bravely plunged on.

'I have treated you terribly, I will not lie. Your presence in my life was a distraction from my work and I resented you for being forced upon me by my mother and father.' A strangled sob sounded from the other side.

'Why are you saying these things?' Molly exclaimed, her voice heavy with tears.

Sherlock straightened, planting his palms against the door, and desperately pleaded, 'No, no, no! You misunderstand, Molly. Please open the door so I can-'

'Whatever you have to say, say it from there and then leave me be,' she cried.

He closed his eyes and sighed.

'Very well,' he said, bracing a hand on the frame above the door, rested his head against the cool wood. Taking a deep breath, he opened his mouth to begin, what he considered to be, a dashing soliloquy professing his love and adoration that would have her in his arms within minutes. As his mouth formed the first word, he was suddenly halted by the sound of her cries and sniffling, muffled by what was assumedly her bed. Panicking, knowing that he had caused her more undue distress, his mouth moved before his mind.

'I love you!'

His eyes widened at his abrupt admission. As the sound of his bellow faded down the hall, silence once more fell in Molly's room. Sherlock held his breath, leaning away from the door, desperate to hear something.

Several painful minutes passed by in silence. Suddenly, the sound of wood creaking reached Sherlock's ears. Another creak. Molly was walking toward the door. His heart thudded almost painfully as he waited for her to open it.

The steps stopped just short of the barrier between them.

Through the splintered wood, he heard her take a shaky breath. In a near whisper he barely made out, she said, 'Explain.'

He rested his head against the door, closing his eyes, 'I know you have had every reason to doubt me, myself providing the most definite proof,' he said gently, lowering his voice in humility. 'When you ran from me, I felt fear like nothing I had ever experienced before. I could not explain it, because at the time I thought I barely knew you. But as the days passed and I could not find you, my fear grew into terror. I spent several days in my Mind Palace trying to find any hint as to where you had gone.'

He paused, taking a shaky breath before continuing. 'You were there, in the last place I looked. My Mind Study. I had avoided the room, knowing that it was the last place I had seen you and the feelings it represented since that night were not pleasant and not believing there would be any clues there. But I was wrong. When I finally entered it, I found you, sitting at my desk, reading over my case notes. And you smiled at me. There was no hurt, no anger on your face, only a smile that I had not seen grace your features in more than a year. When I asked you where you had gone, you laughed and told me that for a Consulting Detective I was surprisingly blind to the obvious.'

'I'm in your Mind Palace?' a surprised Molly interjected from behind the door.

'Yes,' Sherlock nodded against the door, even though she could not see. 'I never realized you were in there. And not in written records of our interactions, but an actual embodiment of you. No one, not even Watson, has manifested in my mind. I was unsettled and confused how the woman I told myself I did not want had slipped inside my mind.'

'Then I found you at the Lestrades'. And suddenly the woman I had married was no longer a boring simpleton,' her indignant huff made him simultaneously wince and smile ruefully, 'Forgive me for my ignorance. You are without a doubt the most captivating, beguiling woman I have ever met. And you are surprisingly strong underneath that mask of meekness.'

'I am sorry,' she murmured loud enough to hear, 'for slapping you so, and in public, no less.'

He chuckled, pressing his fingers against his cheek in remembrance of her furious slap at the social. 'I admit, it was deserved. I had been pursuing you in order to fulfill my craving to overcome a challenge. But my pretense soon became my desire. I flirted with you to see the becoming blush upon your cheeks, not just to unsettle you. I craved your touch, not to feel triumphant over you, but to feel the tingling of my skin under yours, the jolt of my heart knowing it was near yours.'

'It was in the aftermath of the social when I discovered I no longer wanted to win you over. I wanted to win you back. You do not belong underneath me, as some submissive simpleton. You are my right-hand, my clever wife and your place is at my side.'

Molly inhaled sharply, giving Sherlock enough encouragement to continue.

'So I sought to woo you with displays of affection, holding your hand, kissing your cheek, even that blasted winking. I thought I was effectively proving my love,' her breath audibly hitched at his words, 'until the day you left for good. I had never known pain like that, even after the passing of my mother and father. I loved them, undoubtedly, but I did not know them well, having spent most of my life apart from their care. But when you left, there are no other words to describe it except it felt as though you had carved out my heart and taken it with you, such was the intense pain in my chest.'

Closing his eyes tightly, Sherlock prayed fervently that hope was not lost. 'I never told you that I love you, because I thought it was implied by my actions.' His voice grew deeper and he spoke faster as his passion grew, 'Had I known you did not understand, I would have told you in a thousand ways, in a thousand tongues, until you knew beyond any doubt that you, Molly, you are my heart, my love, my _wife_.'

'You doubt that I will remain faithful to you, but there is no one who can even compare to you. I called you plain, when you are, in fact, the most distracting creature God has set upon the earth. And I promise you, Molly, that even when your physical beauty fades, your kindness and cleverness will keep me enraptured until the day I die.'

'I promise you that I will never give you any reason to doubt me again,' Sherlock professed, 'I promise you, even were the sky to fall, my love for you will always remain.'

Closing his eyes, he whispered desperately, 'Please, Molly.' Tears stung his eyes. 'Come home.'

The noise surrounding them died, a heavy silence twining between the estranged couple as even the house itself seemed to hold its breath in anticipation.

Sherlock could feel his heart beat rapidly, his gut twisting in fear.

Fear of rejection, fear that she would close the door on their marriage once and for all, despite his admission of love.


	19. The Battlefield of the Mind

Closing his eyes, he whispered desperately, 'Please, Molly.' Tears stung his eyes. 'Come home.'

The noise surrounding them died, a heavy silence twining between the estranged couple as even the house itself seemed to hold its breath in anticipation.

Sherlock could feel his heart beat rapidly, his gut twisting in fear.

Fear of rejection, fear that she would close the door on their marriage once and for all, despite his admission of love.

Suddenly, the latch creaked, slowly unhinging. With a gentle pull, the door swung inward.

* * *

Molly was rooted to the floor, hands wound around her middle, her entire body paralyzed as Sherlock passionately professed his love. Every shattered piece of her heart thrummed to life, being pulled towards the warmth of Sherlock's love. But her mind was shouting above it all, her doubts battling against her desire to believe him.

The battle within her grew, her heart pounding frantically, desperate to win and bind itself to Sherlock's, her mind screaming against throwing herself back into his deception.

From the other side of the door, Sherlock grew quiet. Molly held her breath, afraid to make any sound.

Suddenly, a gentle whisper floated through the cracked door. 'Please, Molly. Come home.'

Her thoughts settled, a hesitant cease fire reigning over the battleground of her mind and heart. In a single step, she stood in front of the door. Reaching out, she slowly lifted the creaky latch. With cautious purpose, she opened the door to find Sherlock leaning against the top of the doorframe, his face inches from hers.

His curls were in disarray, wild and falling into his red, teary eyes. He wore the same shirt as the day she left, its buttons done in haste and uncharacteristically wrinkled. Molly felt her heart jolt at the sight of him.

While she took in his appearance, Sherlock was studying her, as well. He noted the dark circles under her red-rimmed eyes, fresh tear tracks running down the curve of her cheek. Without realizing it, he'd taken his hand from the door and was brushing his thumb across her face, erasing the evidence of her sadness.

She breathed in shakily at his touch, still uncertain. He cupped her cheek, willing her to believe his sincerity. _Please, Molly. I need you._

'I don't know what to do,' Molly whispered, afraid to speak too loudly and break the solemn moment. Sherlock inched closer, wanting to be near her, yet not wanting to scare her off again.

Sherlock said nothing, wanting her to come to him of her own volition.

She sighed and closed her eyes, 'I want to believe you, Sherlock. But I don't know how.'

He lowered his hand from her face and she immediately felt the loss. But before she could react, she felt him grasp her hand, lacing his cold fingers with her warm ones.

Swallowing hard against the rising fear, he rasped 'Will you try?'

Molly opened her eyes, staring into his stunning, open eyes. His face, usually so stoic and cold, was a study in vulnerability; his eyes were wide, brows furrowed and his lips turned down, as though he might never smile again. Her broken heart clenched at the lack of defenses he was putting up, allowing her to see a side of him she had never before witnessed. But her mind would not be silenced for long, her doubts and insecurities rising once more. She bit her bottom lip as her mind and heart waged war. Tugging her hand from his, she turned away, walking back into the room.

'I don't know if I can, Sherlock,' she said, walking to the window. 'For seven months I tried. And I was never certain if you were pursuing me romantically because you were interested or because I was a challenge. But then, then we were friends. I accompanied you on cases, you treated me with kindness…' She trailed off, turning to sit in defeat upon the small bench under the window, her anxious hands trembling in her lap.

Sherlock moved from his spot in the doorway, coming to kneel in front of her. He placed his hands over hers and prodded, 'but?'

Molly sighed, 'But you treated Doctor Watson in the same manner, so I assumed you had decided to cease your pursuit of me in favor of a friendly marriage. And I was coming to terms with that, until the other night.'

He frowned, confused. 'If you thought I had abandoned wooing you, what did you think all that flirting was about?'

Molly shrugged, 'I suppose I thought you were attempting to make our potential future intimacies more bearable, making me feel self-confident. Or maybe it was your misconstrued way of apologizing for your earlier insults about my appearance.'

'Or maybe you were afraid to acknowledge that you knew I was attempting to woo you, not to simply seduce you,' Sherlock suggested.

Throwing his hands off her lap, Molly jumped up in tearful anger, sending Sherlock onto his backside. 'Can you fault me for being cautious of my hopes and of my heart?'

From his, rather undignified, sprawled position, Sherlock was quick to smooth over his words, 'Molly, really, I-'

'No!' Molly shouted, tears escaping. 'No, you do not get to come in here and blame me or say these things, any of these things! I spent two years, two years, Sherlock, loving you and waiting for you to even notice I was in your home!' Ugly, wretched sobs broke through her anger, yet Molly ploughed on, 'You, you think that some fl-flirting, seductive glances, a-and a profession of l-love is enough?'

In an instant, Sherlock was on his feet, gripping her arms tight as Molly trembled. 'Molly, calm down.'

She ignored him, jerking her arms from his grasp and stepping away. 'W-well, it's not! It's bloody not enough! You had so m-many chances when it counted, Sh-Sherlock, b-but now…' her breathing erratic, Molly tried to hold onto her anger as panic began to shroud her vision, '…n-now y-you…'

Her vision grew dark and her knees buckled. Sherlock rushed forward as he saw her eyes roll back and caught her before she hit the ground, sweeping her into his arms. She stirred, not quite unconscious, but weakened from the onset of the anxiety.

He gently laid her atop the bed, sitting beside her and brushing her hair from her face. She opened her eyes and groaned at the sight of him above her. 'I'm not weak.' She murmured, petulantly.

Sherlock smiled and spoke softly, 'I know you're not. In fact, you're the strongest woman I know. Who else could love a heartless bastard such as myself?' His rueful smile elicited a small chuckle from the woman in the bed. Suddenly he turned serious, 'But your anger and fear are causing these episodes, especially after the emotional exhaustion of the past day.'

Molly turned her head away, 'I know. I just…' she sighed, 'I don't know how to forgive you anymore.'

Icy fear spread across Sherlock's chest. Blinking back the sudden prickle of tears, he turned his face away and swallowed deeply, trying to regain his composure.

They sat in silence for a moment. The broken wife and the fearful husband. Each one held the other's heart. But it was in that moment, that brief glimpse Molly saw of complete and honest fear etched across her husband's face, that her mind and doubts conceded defeat. At last, she lowered her guard, allowing hope to find its rightful place in her heart once more.

She smiled gently, reaching up to caress his cheek and turn his face back to her.

'But I am willing to learn.'


	20. The Eve of Change

Two days later, having returned to Bakersfield and her former bedroom the day before, Molly awoke to a layer of fresh snow covered the rolling estate. She groaned as the sun filtered through the window, shining on her face. Blinking against the sudden brightness, she got up begrudgingly and made her way to her wardrobe.

Molly suddenly grinned as she saw the beautiful rich, green gown hanging from the door.

It was Christmas Eve. Which meant tonight was the party she and Sherlock planned on hosting. Giggling with joy, she set about getting ready for the day. After having breakfast and a warm bath in her room, she eagerly put on the festive dress. Its cap sleeves and white lace edging were simple and tasteful, accessorized by elbow length gloves of purest white. Standing in front of her mirror, Molly brushed out her long hair, pulling it back and pinning it to the nape of her neck in a loose chignon. No sense trying anything fancy, simple suited Molly just fine.

_And Sherlock says he finds me attractive, so what sense is there in a painful up-do? _Molly caught her own gaze in the mirror, seeing the uncertainty in her own eyes at the thought. Returning with Sherlock was not an easy decision, even after his shocking admission. Molly was struggling desperately with her own self-doubt and distrust of Sherlock's honesty.

She flushed in mortification and regret as she remembered her fainting episode, wishing mightily that she was able to forget it entirely.

_Weak. Pathetic. Dramatic. _Self-recriminations taunted her, reminding her that just when she thinks she is strong enough, she will fail. She will always be weak.

Molly closed her eyes and turned away from the mirror, unable to look at herself. Her gloved hands twisted the loose material of her skirt as she tried to control her thoughts.

_Worthless. You can't even stand up to him without losing control of your own body. A weak body is the sign of a weak mind. You are a simpleton compared to his genius. What will he want with you when he is no longer intrigued by your mind? _Images of Sherlock dancing with a beautiful woman flashed through Molly's mind followed by images of him embracing the woman, holding her close, caressing her cheek and staring into her eyes before claiming her lips with his.

Her stomach dropped and tears pricked her eyes. Swallowing against the lump in her throat, Molly focused on breathing deeply and stopping her runaway thoughts. _He said he loves me. He would not have said it if he did not mean it._

Or would he?

_Sherlock is many things, cruel and hurtful, yes. But to hear him profess so ardently his love… he would not be able to fake that depth of emotion._

…

_Would he?_

Arguing with herself was proving to be a depressive endeavor, so Molly purposefully straightened her back and put those thoughts from her mind.

With her anxieties calmed for the moment, she left the room to face the day.

* * *

In the study, dressed in his finest, tailored suit, Sherlock paced.

_How long does it take for the bloody woman to get dressed? _It was nearing midday and he had yet to see Molly.

She had returned to the estate the evening before, her and Sherlock having spent the day visiting with her father. Although happy to have her back home, Sherlock still knew it was a long road to her forgiveness before him. Angry at himself for being too forward and starting the chain of events that led to her leaving, he spent the night devising a new plan, one that did not involve mistletoe. Something told him that _that _planwould definitely not improve his standing in Molly's regard.

Wishing that he could meet with Charlotte for guidance before the party, but knowing it would be impossible with the preparations, he found himself floundering in his thoughts. _What is appropriate for this stage in our relationship? No kissing, of course, not until she is certain of my love. Embracing? Perhaps, but only when customary, such as one of us departing the manor or when she is in need of comfort. But should I instigate the embrace or wait for her permission? How long should I hold her? Where do my arms and hands go?_

Suddenly overcome with questions that he had not been concerned with before, a layer of sweat formed on his brow.

But before he could deal with the barrage of thoughts, the door to the study opened behind him and the sound of slippered feet announced the presence of his wife. Sherlock spun around and froze, his greeting dying on his lips.

His wife, even in the simplest of gowns, her unassuming and unpainted face covered with a mask of confidence, was beautiful. He stood unmoving as she slowly walked up to him. Despite her nonchalant attitude, Sherlock, when he removed his eyes from her curvy figure, could see the hesitation and fear in her wide, brown eyes.

Snapping out of his daze, he reached out for her gloved hand, holding it reverently in his. 'You, dear Molly, are beautiful.' Without breaking her gaze, he lifted her hand and placed a gentle kiss to her knuckles as her neck and face flushed red.

'Thank you, Mister Holmes,' she murmured. He could still see her wariness and felt her tense under his touch. _Oh, Molly, please. Please trust in me._

Remembering his plan, he slowly released her hand and stepped back, knowing she needed time and space to come to terms with his love. 'Are you quite ready for tonight? I believe last minute changes are permitting Mycroft and Anthea to attend. I have already informed the staff to prepare extra.'

Molly smiled broadly, her anxieties forgotten. 'Oh, wonderful! It has been so long since I have seen either of them, it will be lovely to have them come.'

'Yes, lovely,' Sherlock deadpanned, his nose wrinkling in distaste.

Molly giggled, 'You love your brother, Sherlock.' The man visibly preened at her use of his informal name, but Molly did not notice, continuing speaking. 'Do not deny it. He is a brilliant-'

'Snobby'

'-kind'

'Arrogant'

'-wonderful'

'Fat'

'-man.' Molly frowned in semi-disapproval at Sherlock's interruptions. 'Am I to assume that you have planned some form of childish prank for tonight at Mycroft's expense?'

Sherlock didn't answer, lowering his eyes, a definite pout on his lips at being found out and having his fun spoilt.

_I know I should not find it endearing when he torments Mycroft… And I know I should not be so cavalier with him myself, after everything. But Heaven help me, I cannot resist wanting to see his smile when he has a devious, child-like plan._

She rolled her eyes and huffed, 'Do what you like,' Sherlock raised his eyes in disbelief. A moment later, he smiled devilishly, as though a brilliant thought occurred to him. Molly instantly knew what he was thinking and raised her hand, exclaiming, 'But do not bring me into your confidence. If the evening ends with bad blood between the two of you, I would like to claim ignorance.'

The pout returned, Sherlock feeling a bit let down.

_Someday, though, _he smiled to himself as they left the study to make the final preparations for the evening, _you will be my companion in crime, bringing down the mighty Mycroft Holmes, one Christmas pudding at a time._

* * *

The clock chimed the late hour, as four couples made their way into the drawing room, lethargic from the holiday feast.

'That was a lovely meal, Lady Holmes,' Mary Morstan, Doctor Watson's fiancé, a smartly dressed blonde with a confident air, had quickly endeared herself to Molly early in the evening and the feeling was quite mutual, the two women sitting down together on the settee.

'I shall be delighted to tell our cook of your approval,' Molly smiled, 'but only if you call me Molly.'

'And please, call me Mary.'

Watching them, Sherlock and Watson exchanged amused glances. Leaning over to whisper in his friend's ear, Watson chuckled, 'You do realize that we will never have any secrets from one another after this. Women tell each other everything.'

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and smirked, 'I do not need Molly's third-hand information to know everything about you, Watson. You seem to have forgotten who I am.'

A rueful grin graced the doctor's face as he once more whispered, 'You may be able to deduce everything about me, but women are into details. And once their friendship is established, I am sure I will know everything about you, Holmes.' His smiled turned wicked, 'And I mean _everything_.'

Sherlock froze. _Everything. Even… intimate details?_

Without a second thought, he strode over to the chatting women and towered over them, a stern expression on his face. 'Molly, it has been brought to my attention that a friendship with Miss Morstan will bring to light certain… private details of our life. If you insist on maintaining contact with her, which I assume you will, I must ask you to be discreet in divulging information about our intimacies.'

_Heavens above, he cannot be in earnest. _With wide eyes, Molly felt herself flush with embarrassment and anger. The atmosphere of the room was heavy with tension, waiting for someone to break the silence after Sherlock's rather abrupt, and loud, declaration.

Suddenly, the settee began shifting slightly and a muffled snort sounded from beside Molly. With disbelieving eyes, Molly turned her head to see her new friend, Mary Morstan, shaking with barely contained laughter, her hands covering her mouth.

'I'm-I'm sorry, it's just, that was the last t-thing I would have e-expected him to say,' she managed between giggles and snorts, her blue eyes flooded with mirth.

Unable to help it, Molly felt a laugh rise in her chest. Giving in to it, she felt her embarrassment and anger fade away. Soon, seven of the eight occupants of the room were laughing uproariously, as an indignant and extremely confused Sherlock frowned in disapproval.

An amused Mycroft removed himself from the Lestrades, who were shaking with laughter, and drew up next to his frustrated brother. 'I see you still have yet to learn to rein in your tongue.'

'I shall never understand the inner workings of the minds of goldfish,' Sherlock groused, both grateful and annoyed about that fact.

* * *

The gathering concluded several hours later, after several performances by Sherlock on his violin and a round of singing by the entire party, Holmes brothers excluded, despite their wives endeavoring to coerce them.

Snow was gently falling as Sherlock and Molly waved farewell to their guests, the other three couples carefully making their way out to their carriages on the slightly icy path.

'Happy Christmas!' Molly called out, her voice echoing into the night. A series of loud 'Happy Christmases' returned, brightening her smile. Her eyes drooped and, without thought or hesitation, she leaned into her husband, watching the carriages roll down the path and into the darkness, the lanterns on the buckboards fading as they drew farther away.

'I believe that was a very successful Christmas Eve, wouldn't you agree, Mister Holmes?' Molly sighed contentedly, leaning her head against his arm.

Sherlock looked down at her and smiled, 'A very successful Christmas Eve, indeed, my love.' He leaned closer and whispered in her ear, 'However, the clock is about to chime the midnight hour, and Christmas Day shall be upon us.' His voice dropped and Molly shivered at the feeling of his breath across her neck, 'May I give you your present now? Or would you rather wait?'

Molly stared up at him, her eyes wide. Nothing on his face gave his intentions away, his eyes open and somewhat uncertain. Her heart stuttered at the slight vulnerability showed. _He is trying, Molly, to bridge the chasm between us. Do the same. _She scolded herself for hesitating.

Squeezing his arm, she smiled up at him, 'Now would be lovely.'

Guiding her back inside, a grinning Sherlock refused to let go of her arm and began leading her into the study. He instructed her to stand by his desk and close her eyes, her arms out in front of her.

The clock in the hall began to chime, twelve bells for the start of the new day. Christmas Day. Molly smiled as she heard the sound of Sherlock shifting something about.

Finally, he stopped and she heard him approach her. Settling something heavy in her hands, she could hear his smile as he said, 'Open your eyes.'

She obeyed and looked down at her gift. It was a simple, leather-bound book, thick and heavy. Her eyes caught the simple engraved title and her heart skipped a beat.

_The Laws of Thought _by George Boole.

Molly stared at the book, astounded. She had been an avid admirer of Boole before their wedding, but had been unable to follow his work since. Once, a few months into their marriage, she had mentioned Boole's recent mathematical discovery to Sherlock. He had ignored her, continuing to write his case notes. Molly had sighed in defeat and left the room. But now, as she stared at the evidence before her, she realized that he had heard her. He had remembered.

She swallowed hard, her throat thick with emotion.

'Do you… not like it?' Sherlock asked, his voice uncertain.

Molly couldn't move, her hands clenching the book tightly. Her mouth gaped as she tried to find the words to thank him, for the book, for remembering. She raised her head, eyes suddenly swimming with tears.

Sherlock misread her silence and tears, afraid that he had offended her or disappointed her. He reached out to take the book back, 'I apologize, I was under the impression you-'

His apology was cut short as Molly stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his.

The kiss was short, chaste, but both felt the unmistakable spark ignite between them. Molly leaned back, a small smile on her face. 'Thank you,' she whispered.

Sherlock stood in shock, frozen by the feel of her lips against his. The fact that she had initiated the kiss was an overwhelming feeling, his emotions erupting into chaos, short-circuiting his motor functions. Molly watched as a gamut of emotions flashed across his nearly unmoving eyes: shock, wonder, fear, and desire warred for dominance.

Hugging the book to her chest, she smiled at her Consulting Detective and turned to leave. When she reached the door, she turned back slightly and whispered contentedly, 'Happy Christmas, Sherlock.'

The gentle snap of the door closing broke Sherlock from his paralysis. He smiled as he heard her gentle footsteps fade down the hall, still feeling the remnants of her lips on his.

'Happy Christmas, my Molly.'


	21. Where Our Pain Finds Us

Molly paced in the front hall, nervously chewing her lip. It had been four days since Sherlock left to go undercover for a case, a 9, he had declared it enthusiastically. Molly had giggled at his antics. But now, not knowing the nature of the case, Molly began to worry about Sherlock being alone. Doctor Watson was with his wife, Mary, on their bridal tour for another three weeks and Gregory was not aware of Sherlock's new client.

After three days had passed without a sign of his return or even a discreet telegram telling her he was safe, Molly became nearly frantic with worry. She had spent the past two days waiting in the front hall, half fearful of opening the door to a devastated Gregory bearing the body of her husband. She prayed fervently that Sherlock would return safely and quickly.

Mere moments after she whispered 'amen', two thuds sounded from the front door. Molly was there in an instant, flinging the door open wide. Sherlock's horse stood in the path, no rider in sight. Confused, her gaze lowered and her heart nearly stopped. Back against the archway, his legs stretched out in front of him, was her husband.

'Sherlock!' she exclaimed. His usually pale face was ghastly white and covered in sweat as he took shallow breaths. His arm wrapped around his ribs, tightly clutching the fabric of his coat which hung from his shoulders as a cape would. He tilted his head up and opened his eyes, glassy and unfocused. Upon realizing that it was his wife staring down at him, he lifted his other hand and tried to smile, 'M-molly. Love my Molly.' His eyes suddenly rolled back in his head and he began to fall over. Molly snapped out of her shock and caught him before his head hit the ground.

'George!' She shouted, panic lacing her voice. 'George, help!'

The butler ran into the room upon hearing Lady Holmes' desperate summons. His eyes widened at the sight of her on the floor, holding up an unconscious Sherlock.

Together, they managed to carry Sherlock into the drawing room, laying him out on the settee. Molly moved his arm from his middle and opened the flap of his coat. Bile rose in her throat at the sight of his white shirt covered in crimson blood.

George choked in a breath behind her. Not moving her eyes from her husband, Molly ordered George to have Bennett fetch her father.

'Doctor Watson is away for another fortnight, so my father will have to be Sherlock's carer, bring him here immediately,' she demanded.

As the butler hastened to obey, Molly carefully maneuvered Sherlock from out of his coat, careful not to brush his injured chest. That task completed, she scrambled to find the letter opener in the desk. With efficiency, she cut the bloody shirt from his body, peeling it away from the wound.

Her lungs stopped as she stared at her husband's chest. A long, gaping wound stretched from just left of his navel across his chest to his right shoulder. Not deep, but serious enough to warrant great concern.

George rushed back into the room, having sent Bennett on to the Hooper manor. 'What do you need, my lady?'

'A basin of warm water, one of cold water, several clean rags, and a glass of cool water,' she rattled off, remembering the steps of doctoring her father had taught her.

While they waited for Matthias, Molly placed a cool cloth across Sherlock's sweaty brow and cleaned the blood from his chest with warm water. When he stirred, she pressed the glass of water to his lips. Even in his state of unconsciousness, he recognized the feeling of a glass against his mouth and drank greedily.

Remaining on her knees by Sherlock's side, Molly became impatient as an hour of waiting drew close, knowing that Bennett should have returned with her father by now. Sherlock was still losing blood and the wound needed to be cleaned and sutured promptly.

Suddenly, Bennett's shout rang out from the front hall. Running footsteps sounded down the hall and Bennett burst through the door.

'Bring my father back here,' Molly instructed him, not tearing her eyes away from Sherlock.

'Lady Holmes,' Bennett panted, 'Your father is currently in London treating an outbreak of illness and is unable to come.'

Molly froze in horror. Sherlock was dying. And the two doctors who could save him were out of reach.

From behind Bennett, a posh voice declared, 'Despite my colleague's preoccupation with his current patients, I was able to tear myself away to offer you my own services.'

Molly raised her eyes and peered over the top of the settee. A handsome young man made his way into the room, a medical kit held in his hand. She frowned at the stranger, 'I'm sorry, who are you?'

'Doctor Julian Victor, a recent arrival to the city of London. And, at the moment, the savior of your husband. Your stable boy ran into me on the pathway and, when I introduced myself as a doctor, he told me of your predicament. May I?' he gestured to the wounded man, asking permission to tend to him.

Molly nodded, knowing this strange doctor was her only chance to save Sherlock. Doctor Victor moved around the settee and took Molly's place at Sherlock's side. He raked his gaze over the aggravated wound, a clinical eye taking note of every detail.

'A simple solution,' he declared, opening his satchel and rummaging about. Pulling out a sewing needle, a spool of thin embroidery floss, and a bottle of clear liquid, he smirked, 'Sutures.'

Taking a clean rag, Doctor Victor dampened a small portion of the cloth with the clear liquid. _Alcohol, _Molly thought, the smell strong and bitter. The doctor set about cleaning the wound as best he could. The pain caused Sherlock to cry out. Molly scrambled around the arm of the settee, cradling Sherlock's head in her hands and whispering comfort into his ears, praying that he could hear her.

Sterilizing the needle with a matchstick, the doctor threaded the floss through the small hoop and started to make the first stitch. Molly frowned and shouted, 'Wait!'

The doctor froze, hand poised just above Sherlock's chest. 'Is there something wrong, Lady Holmes?' His tone condescending, Molly felt her hackles rise.

'Yes, there is something bloody wrong,' she spat. The men in the room raised their eyebrows at her colorful language. 'You are about to thread a needle through my husband. Yet you have not put a bit in his mouth, something that is essential to prevent his biting his own tongue off in pain.'

He blinked at her in surprise, unmoving. Molly huffed and pulled the doctor's satchel close, feeling about for the bit. Finding it, she put it between Sherlock's teeth, the ends extending out either side of his mouth.

Doctor Victor smiled patronizingly at her, 'May I proceed?'

Molly narrowed her eyes at him, distrusting of this unprofessional stranger. 'Where were you taught medicine, Doctor?'

'I learned from the best,' he replied.

Molly released Sherlock's head and stood up to tower over the stranger, 'I did not ask from whom you learned, I asked where you were taught. From what professional, licensed institution did you obtain the right to be called 'Doctor'?'

He smiled at her, 'Experience is a far better teacher than man, my dear.'

Realizing that the man who was about to perform a delicate procedure on her husband was, in fact, a fraud, fury and terror roiled inside her.

She stared down at him, clenching her jaw, not wanting him to see her waver. 'You will leave this premises at once, sir. And I shall be informing Scotland Yard that you are masquerading as a man of medicine, when you are most certainly not.'

His smile grew cold and he hissed, 'You will do no such thing, woman. Your husband needs medical attention, if you force me to leave, he will die from his injury. If I stay, I will suture his wound, bleed him, and he will live.'

Molly froze in horror. 'What did you say?'

He sneered at her, 'I said if I stay, he lives.'

'By bleeding him?' Molly shrieked. 'He has already lost too much blood! Bleeding is a barbaric practice and would most certainly assure his death!'

'You know nothing of medicine, woman,' Victor shouted. George and Bennett immediately grabbed him by the arms and began dragging him from the room, 'He will die and you will have to live with the knowledge that it is your fault!'

His shouts echoed in the hall as the men forced him out of the manor. Molly stood trembling over her husband, suddenly aware that there was no one to save him.

_There is always you. _A voice whispered in her mind. A deep baritone voice that sounded very much like Sherlock.

The imposter had left his bag, the needle and floss laying on the floor where he had dropped it. Molly picked them up, staring at them intently.

George reappeared in the doorway, 'Bennett has taken that man back to London by way of Scotland Yard. I apologize, my lady. I was unaware of-'

'It is not your fault, George,' Molly tried to smile reassuringly, but the weight of the situation bore heavily on her. 'I do not blame Bennett, either. The man was deceitful and will, hopefully, be punished in due course for his actions.'

George nodded, 'So what are we to do? There are no other doctors available, the outbreak in the city monopolizing their services.'

Molly was silent, turning her eyes back to the needle in her hand.

'My lady?'

'I have to do it,' she whispered.

George blinked. 'You are practiced in medicine?'

She swallowed hard and shook her head. 'No, but I watched my father and studied beside him as he worked. I am no more experienced than that quack that was in here. I just pray that my knowledge and common sense will be enough, for we have no other choice.'

The butler nodded in solemn agreement.

Sherlock lay unmoving, a fresh sheen of sweat covering his body, as Molly sterilized the needle and prepped the floss. George took her former place at Sherlock's head, holding the injured man's shoulders firmly and making sure the bit was in place.

Molly breathed in deep, touching the needle to Sherlock's chest. With one last desperate prayer, she closed off her fear and made the first stitch. Sherlock twitched violently in pain, screaming through the bit as Molly used the surgical scissors from the bag to cut the floss. George pressed down on Sherlock's arms, using his own body as leverage to hold Sherlock as still as possible.

For thirty minutes, the two worked in tandem, Molly counting out 127 separate sutures along his wound. When she finished, Sherlock and the settee were drenched in sweat, tears rolling down his cheeks as he cried in agony. Molly prayed that, in his unconsciousness, he would not remember the pain.

Gently dabbing the dried blood from the stitches on his chest, Molly breathed a sigh of relief, her unkempt hair sticking to her sweaty forehead. Sherlock would sleep for a few days, allowing his body to begin the recovery process, and he would soon be back to his old self.

Or so she thought.


	22. From the Darkness Comes a Light

Seven days passed of the New Year, five since Sherlock collapsed on the front stoop. And Molly remained vigilant at his bedside, nursing her comatose husband. Within hours of moving him to the upper room, Sherlock fell ill to infection and hypothermia, a fever raging through his weakened body.

Molly never left his side for more than a private moment, dozing in the chair pressed against the side of his bed, her fear keeping her tuned, even in sleep, to Sherlock's every need; Bathing his burning brow in cool water, covering his shivering form in more blankets, and during particularly bad spells, cleansing his bare, healing chest in cool water, all in hopes of breaking the fever.

George dutifully followed her every command, bringing broth and bedpans, and lending his strength to help Lady Holmes shift her husband every so often to prevent sores from forming. He watched as his master silently fought against his own body's infection. Lady Holmes began to wilt as the days passed and the fever raged on, her hopes fading in her sleep-deprived eyes. George knew it was only a matter of time, either the infection would ravage his master's body, death in its wake, or the fever would peak and finally break, so the healing could begin.

The morning of the sixth day found Molly dozing beside Sherlock's bed, her head resting atop his motionless hand. Exhaustion seeped from every muscle of her body, dark circles hugged her eyes. Suddenly, the door swung open. Molly's head shot up in surprise, her eyes unfocused and gritty.

'Oh, Molly,' a familiar, gentle voice called out softly.

Molly blinked, trying to make out who the bright yellow blur was standing in front of her. 'Charlotte?'

The older woman moved instantly, kneeling by Molly's side. Her wide blue eyes were sharp with concern as she smoothed Molly's wild hair from her face. 'Dear Molly, why did you not call for me?'

Still trying to get her bearings, Molly simply stared.

Several moments passed as tears began welling in her eyes. Everything suddenly came down upon her and she cried out, 'Oh, Charlotte. It is too much, I thought I could handle this, but he is still unresponsive, the fever is not breaking, his wound is not healing, I fear he is in a coma from hypothermia; Doctor Watson was married just after Christmas and is away for another fortnight, my father is under quarantine with the ill, and I did not want you to be near Sherlock in your condition.'

Charlotte blinked in surprise at the words bursting from the emotionally and physically exhausted woman. Her cheeks flushed red at Molly's deduction of her, 'You know of my condition?'

'Yes, of course, and congratulations' Molly brushed the tears from her eyes, smiling tremulously, 'I noticed the signs of expectancy during the party Christmas Eve. I assumed you would tell us when you were ready.'

Grasping Molly's hands in her hand, Charlotte leaned up and kissed her friend's cheek. 'I will be fine. The baby will be fine.' She frowned in concern, 'But if you continue like this, you will not be.'

Molly nodded, but did not make to get up. Charlotte stood and pulled Molly to her feet, guiding her to the door. 'Gregory is downstairs, your butler explaining what has transpired and what is needed. You will go rest, while Gregory and I take care of Sherlock. It will not do for you to succumb to illness now.'

They reached the door and Molly stopped, looking back at her husband, 'But what if he wakes and I am not here?'

'Then I will bring you to him,' with a gentle push, Charlotte sent Molly out the door. 'Go. Sleep for a time, eat something to renew your energy, and if the situation changes, I will find you.'

Nodding in defeat, and relief, Molly acquiesced and opened the door to her own bedroom. Barely making it to the bed, she laid down atop the covers, still in the clothes she had been wearing for a week, and immediately collapsed in exhaustion.

* * *

The darkness faded and a hazy fog filled Sherlock's mind. He started to open his eyes, but they were adamantly closed, his entire body heavy and immovable. Try as he might, he could not move and panic began to seep in. Finally, abandoning that endeavor, he focused on clearing the fog, his mind and senses waking up to life as the panic faded.

The first thing he noticed was the smell, his nose being the first to reconnect to his mind. The bitter scent of tobacco was strong, underscored by the smell of roses, a gentle fragrance. _Graham and Charlotte Lestrade. _Before he could deduce their presence, he was overpowered by the smell of alcohol, pure alcohol that could be found in his lab.

Suddenly, white pain ripped through his body, as though his chest was on fire. Had his other senses been awakened, he knew an unholy scream would have been torn from his throat in agony. He tried to move his body, but it was still unresponsive. Unable to get away, he endured the agony, wishing the darkness would take him back once more. _Oh, God! _His mind cried, unable to form any other intelligible words.

The sharp pain suddenly faded, leaving an aching throb in its place. His heartbeat slowed and the fog in his mind dissipated.

Clear-headed, the memories came back in a jumbled rush. He remembered being undercover as a stable boy in his client's household, trying to deduce which of the staff was an assassin placed there to take the life of the client, a wealthy Duke. But had he discovered who it was?

A memory of a knife flashing in the light crossed his mind and his thoughts froze_._ He'd been injured when confronting the imposter. _Foolish to meet with the man alone, _Sherlock rebuked himself. _Thankfully, I managed to get away. To Molly. _He remembered. Wrapping his coat around his shoulders, he had stumbled to his horse and desperately held on to the pommel as they raced home. Everything after that was blank. _I must have arrived and been taken inside. Hypothermia, of course. A wound such as this and an hour ride in the winter, my transport seems to have failed me significantly._

_Pain from cleansing of the wound, but unable to move or respond, yet awake in my mind. Conclusion: awakening from extended coma. Several days, if not more._

_But where is Molly?_

Muted, distorted voices echoed in his mind as his sense of hearing awakened. Gregory, no Graham, was speaking with someone, but to Sherlock, it was as though he was listening from underwater. Unable to make anything out, he grew frustrated. _Perhaps I should focus on reconnecting my appendages._ Determined to gain full control of his body once more, Sherlock tried to move his arms, lifting them from their mental confinement. He struggled and strained, but his arms would not budge. The voices were becoming clearer and Sherlock knew it was only a matter of time before he would awaken from the prison of his mind, but he was determined to hasten that moment's arrival.

Suddenly, his finger twitched as he sought to move his arm. The voices stopped.

He moved it again and a sudden rush of feeling coursed up his arm, his nerves awakening with sharp prickles. Something warm covered his hand, as the rest of his body jumped to life with keenness, eager to leave behind the sleep of near-death.

He groaned as the aching in his chest grew to a burn, constant and tight against the rise and fall of his deep breaths.

'Sherlock?'

_Molly. _Her voice clear and filled with hope, Sherlock felt the rest of his senses shake free of their chains and he opened his eyes. Blinking back the grit and tears, he looked up into the tear-streaked, smiling face of his wife.

'Molly,' he croaked, his throat dry and coarse from unused. Her hand over his tightened as she leaned over from where she sat beside him. Her brown eyes overflowed with tears and she reached up with her free hand to caress his face. He closed his eyes and leaned into her touch.

He felt her trembling lips press a kiss to his brow. She pressed her forehead to his.

Their eyes closed, husband and wife breathed deeply in relief and joy, knowing that the worst was over.


	23. The Bitter News of Regret

There were many qualities about her husband that Molly adored: his wit, his brilliance, his oft-hidden kindness. However, Sherlock had many detracting personality traits that tended to get on her every nerve. And after three weeks of bed rest, these bad traits seemed to have tripled.

'Molly!'

The lady in question rolled her eyes and set her book aside, making her way upstairs in obedience to Sherlock's bellow.

She opened the door to his room, pasting a smile on her face, 'Yes, Sherlock. What do you need?'

'Bored,' he groaned. 'Bored. Bored. Bored!' Shouting the last time, he flung the book in his hands across the room, its cover dented and spine broken.

_Really, husband, that is no way to treat of book of science. _Molly sighed and walked over to the bed, pulling back the covers. As she checked his wound and bandages, deciding to replace the bindings with fresh gauze, she said, 'Is there not something I can bring you to pass the time? Perhaps a new book or your old case notes?'

Grumbling, Sherlock winced as her fingers prodded the edge of the gauze. 'Ow, do you mind?'

Molly simply smiled at him and continued working.

'Don't do that,' Sherlock whined.

'Do what, dear?' Molly asked absentmindedly, reaching over to the table and rolling out a fresh bandage.

Sherlock pouted, 'Don't smile at me patronizingly, as though I'm a child.'

'You're not a child, Sherlock,' Molly agreed, prepping the wound with alcohol. Sherlock grimaced and hissed, the angry wound healing quickly, but still painful.

The stitches had been removed the week before, the process not pleasant for anyone involved. Doctor Watson had returned with his new wife and taken up Sherlock's care, despite Sherlock's insistence that Molly was perfectly capable of being his caretaker. Watson and George had removed his sutures, a process which took almost two hours, no thanks to the Consulting Detective, who thrashed about in dramatic flair for an hour until Molly was called in from visiting with the new Missus Watson. She had taken up a seat on his bed, Sherlock placing his head in her lap, her fingers gently caressing his forehead and temples. After that, the patient was silent and still, the stitches removed quickly. The wound cleaned and dressed in gauze, Sherlock had purposefully ignored Watson's and George's knowing smirks when he refused to let Molly leave.

'Then why do you treat me like one?' Sherlock sulked, his voice a bit breathless from pain. Molly smiled reassuringly and pressed a swift kiss to his cheek, something she had been doing more of recently.

'Because you seem to exhibit several adolescent qualities,' she responded, placing the fresh bandage over his chest.

He huffed, 'I do not.'

Molly tried not to smile, but knew she was failing.

Sherlock watched as she suppressed her smile, her eyes crinkling in mirth and her dimples appearing. Unable to stop himself, he smiled back and chuckled a bit.

'I suppose,' he started, a bit begrudgingly, 'you may be right. For once.'

Molly finished her work and sat up straight, a look of mock surprise on her face, 'I _may _be right? For _once_?'

He narrowed his eyes, 'Don't push it, wife.'

Instead of being offended by his tone, Molly giggled and made to get up from the bed. Her movements were halted by a gentle hand on her arm. She turned back and was surprised to Sherlock frowning in thought, staring past her.

She moved into his line of sight, 'Sherlock?'

Mentally shaking himself, Sherlock focused on his confused wife. 'Am I truly causing you frustrations?'

Molly bit her lip. He was opening up, something that was difficult for a man who guarded his heart so closely. If she told him she was often annoyed by his attitude, it would hurt him and, by proxy, her, for causing him pain.

Sighing, Molly allowed herself a small smile, 'There are times when it is… hard to be around you.' His eyes crinkled, almost imperceptibly, in sadness. Molly hastened to continue, placing her other hand on top of his, 'But you are a brilliant man, an adventurer, confined to a small room for an indefinite period of time. I do not fault you for being irritable, for, were I in your place, I would be driven out of my sanity by boredom and frustration.'

'I am… sorry,' he murmured, lowering his gaze in his version of shame.

Molly smiled, her heart filling at the changes in his behavior. On a whim, she brought his hand up to her lips and placed a reverent kiss on his knuckles. 'Thank you.'

She felt his heartbeat quicken at her actions, her own following suit, as she lowered her hands, still clasping his.

'We're making progress, aren't we?' he questioned, his tone even. But Molly could sense the timid hope behind his words.

'Yes, Sherlock,' she smiled. 'We are.'

His face broke into a smile Molly had not seen in some time and she found herself reflecting it back to him. He removed his hand from hers and clapped his together.

'Good,' he declared, 'Now, I need my case notebook, my diary of tobacco ash, four cigars, and three bottles of medical alcohol.'

Molly gaped at him, 'I beg your pardon?'

'I am bored, you offered to bring me something to occupy my thoughts, now run along and bring me my equipment,' he leaned back, bringing his hands together in a prayer pose as he closed his eyes.

Fighting the temptation to simultaneously slap the man and laugh at his behavior, Molly simply rolled her eyes and went to fetch the Consulting Invalid his requests.

_It is fortunate I love you, Sherlock Holmes, or you would find yourself covered in the contents of the bottles of alcohol._

* * *

As evening drew near, Sherlock eventually tired and began to doze. Molly breathed a sigh of relief, returning to the drawing room to continue reading her abandoned book before retiring herself. Unfortunately, as soon as she put on her spectacles, George entered the room.

'Lord Mycroft and Lady Anthea to see you, madam,' he bowed and stepped aside to permit the guests enter.

Molly stood, trying to appear grateful for the visit, though her body and mind begged for rest. Anthea briskly stepped around the settee and bid Molly sit down.

'For goodness' sake, Mycroft. I did warn you that an unexpected visit would not be welcome,' Anthea chastised her formidable husband as though he were a child.

Molly began to deny Anthea's declaration, but the statuesque brunette hushed her, 'When the Holmes' men set their minds to something, it would take a turn of war to change their minds. I am sorry for intruding, sister.'

Not wishing to seem annoyed, although she could have slapped the ignorant look off of her brother-in-law's face, Molly reassured Anthea as she sat next to her on the settee, 'Do not trouble yourself, Anthea. I fully understand the difficulties of being a Holmes' wife. Perhaps we should draw up a schedule for the men, tea on Thursdays, bickering on Fridays, and possibly a game of croquet every other Sunday?'

The women dissolved into giggles as Mycroft set himself regally in the chair opposite them, his eyebrow quirked in disdain.

'If you have quite finished your unseemly display,' he said, affecting an air of disinterest, 'I would like to learn of my brother's health, perhaps converse with him, if he is awake.'

Molly, ever the one to please, quickly regained control of her mirth. Anthea, on the other hand, was accustomed to her husband's icy façade and exchanged her laughter for wit.

'Husband, dear, it will simply not do for you to appear so solemn. Sherlock will assume that you have heard some dreadful news about his health,' she mockingly reprimanded, 'Try to smile when you see him.'

Mycroft glared wickedly at his wife, 'Were I to appear gravely solemn at his bedside, Sherlock would logically assume he is recovering. Honestly, woman, you claim to understand me.'

Molly snorted, her laughter reignited. Mycroft shook his head as the women lost control of their mirth, trying not to smile himself at the wholly unladylike sounds coming from the pair. Realizing his presence would only fuel their humor, he rose and swept from the room, their raucous laughter following him up the stairs.

Hesitating for a moment outside Sherlock's door, Mycroft slowly pressed the latch and entered the room. His brother was dozing, his hands fallen from their steepled position to lay on his chest. _Fell asleep in your Mind Palace. How unlike you, brother._

Noticing the pile of books near the bed, Mycroft softly strode across the room, picked up an interesting title and settled himself in a nearby chair to wait for his brother to awaken.

More than an hour passed as Mycroft filed away the information he gleaned from the book, the setting sun beginning to make it difficult to read. He sighed and shut the book. Sherlock had yet to wake up and Mycroft's patience was wearing thin. Reaching over, Mycroft struck a match and set the oil lamp alight. The flickering fire danced across Sherlock's face and he grumbled in his sleep.

Several moments later, his eyes blinked open and he turned his head.

'Mycroft,' he growled, clearly frustrated by being watched while he was sleeping and then woken up.

'Sherlock, I trust you are improving?' Mycroft leaned back in his chair, crossing his ankles as he fiddled with the handle of his ever-present brolly.

Sherlock narrowed his gritty eyes. 'You are not here to inquire of my well-being, unless you have suddenly experienced an entire personality change. Nor are you here to visit my wife as it is a late hour. She was with me until half past seven, much too late for an unexpected social visit. You have something to tell me, something of great importance to either myself or my wife; not a case, as I am imprisoned in this house for the foreseeable future, thus it is something personal.'

The politician merely listened impassively as Sherlock spoke. When silence reigned once more, the brothers glared at each other.

At last, Mycroft tilted his head, his dark eyes burning with intensity.

'Irene Adler has returned to London.'


	24. The Lessons We Learn

The Sun was shining, a rarity for wintry London, and Molly was trying to enjoy the brief glimpse of blue sky as she strolled through the park. But a heavy weight had settled on her chest, the past few weeks since Sherlock's recovery from his injuries signaling a stall in their relationship.

Next to her, Gregory Lestrade offered the solid voice of reason and the ear of a confidant. She had shown up on his doorstep that morning, worrying her hands and biting her lip. Looking upon her as a friend and as close to a sister as he could quantify, he had grabbed his coat and ushered her down the street, determined to hear her out.

'Has something happened, Molly?' He gently prodded, 'Is it Sherlock?'

'Do not be alarmed, my husband has fully recovered from his infection and injury some weeks past,' Molly swallowed thickly, her loyalty to the privacy of marriage warring with her concerns. With a deep breath she confessed, 'As for our relationship, we've been making progress,' she said hesitantly and lowered her eyes, 'well, we were.'

Lestrade turned his head to look at her, "Were?"

'Something seems to have drawn his interest away from rebuilding our marriage,' she sighed. 'I suppose I expected this, except…' she bit her lip, unsure. 'Except the things he said before, I believed him. He was sincere, I know it. But lately, he has been withdrawn, keeping himself in the laboratory most days.'

'Has he reverted to his previous treatment of you?' Lestrade asked, concerned.

Molly shook her head, 'No. That is why I am confused. I know him to be sincere in his… affection for me. But…'

Molly sighed, knowing Gregory was waiting patiently and would not force her to confess to him. But she needed someone to listen, someone who understood the fears that plagued her and the self-doubt that robbed her of sleep.

She took a deep breath, the frigid air stinging her throat. She glanced sideways at Gregory before quietly saying, 'But what if he has decided I am no longer worth pursuing? That it is too tiresome? I know he has made so many changes for me, and I believe him to be sincere, but I cannot trust him. Not yet, maybe not ever,' tears pricked her eyes, 'I don't know how to.'

Gregory reached out and hooked her arm through his, patting her gloved hand in comradery. They strolled for a while, Molly seeking to control her trembling lips and Gregory searching for the right words.

Finally, he said, 'When Charlotte and I began to rebuild our marriage, you were witness to both sides, Charlotte's battle with regret and my war with forgiveness. But to be witness is far different from fighting the battle.'

'But now, you are fighting your own war. And you have to make a decision, Molly. Because in the end, you either decide to trust Sherlock or you decide to leave him. There is no sense in fighting the battle if you are determined you will never trust him again. Because the moment he makes a mistake, and he will, because God knows the man is as fallible as any other husband, you will use that to justify your lack of trust in him. He will be the villain to your victim.'

'In refusing to forgive Charlotte for months, I put the two of us through a personal Hell, begging your pardon for my language.' He sighed, his face contorted in regret, 'I felt as though I was justifiably punishing her, but I only damaged our marriage more. In the end, I made the choice to forgive her, to trust her fidelity, every day, even the days when I wanted to hate her or thought she was lying. I still have periods of insecurity in our marriage, but I choose to trust her and her love for me. I sacrificed being the victim of her infidelities in order for the both of us to be the victors in our marriage.'

Molly listened in silence, her face emotionless.

'So, Molly, the question is, are you in the war to win back your marriage or to triumph over your husband?'

Tears were filling her wide eyes and she refused to look up at him, afraid to let him see her shame. They walked in contemplative silence for some minutes, before Molly spoke. 'I-I need to think,' she whispered, her voice wobbly and unsure. She lifted her watery gaze to a distant point, 'alone.'

With an understanding smile, Gregory released her arm and stepped back. 'I trust you will find your way home when the time comes.' He bowed in farewell and walked away, Molly staring at his retreating figure. Somehow she sensed his parting sentence was two-fold.

She walked over to a nearby bench cleared of snow. The biting cold barely phased her as she delved into thought. _What _am_ I doing? Can I ever forgive Sherlock? Or is Gregory right, I'm just waiting for Sherlock to fail so I can be the victim?_

_I know I love him. I am confident he loves me. But trust… can I ever trust him after the lies he threw at me?_

Her thought echoed in her mind, unanswered.

_How do I learn to forgive him and trust him again?_

Her heart thudded almost painfully hard, tears spilling over her frozen cheeks. She thought back on Gregory's words, that he had been punishing Charlotte by withholding forgiveness and trust.

_This is the crux of your problems, Molly. Whether you want to admit it or not, you have been punishing Sherlock for almost an entire year. Has he not proven himself redeemed? Has he not endeavored to, not only win your heart, but change for the better? And has he not succeeded?_

_But what of this past month, his retreating into his laboratory?_

She felt disgusted by her own thoughts. She had fallen in love with a brilliant detective who often sequestered himself away when enthralled with an intriguing case. _I've been jealous that all the attention he had been giving me was suddenly taken away and put into a case. Fool. I have been self-centered and petty. Well, no more. No more being the victim, for the spoils of war will be a fruitful marriage._

She stood up, determination and resolve strengthening her stride as she left the park. _I will trust my husband if it is the last thing I do._

* * *

'Sherlock, why am I here?'

The Consulting Detective didn't respond. A detailed map of London was tacked to the wall of his laboratory, newspaper clippings and notes from his homeless network creating a collage of information. His hands clasped behind his back, the tall man narrowed his eyes, trying to find a connection.

'Sherlock!'

Quirking an eyebrow at the interruption, he turned his head toward the door, 'Ah, Watson. You are here, good.'

The doctor huffed, 'Yes, I am. You sent an urgent message telling me to come here at once, yet here we are, no danger in sight.'

'I seem to be in need of your… advice,' Sherlock said begrudgingly.

Watson smiled wickedly, 'Indeed?' He walked over the table and began rummaging about, pushing stacks of files and clusters of beakers aside.

'What are you doing?' Sherlock questioned in annoyance.

The doctor smirked, 'Searching for writing utensils to make note of this historic occasion. The great Sherlock Holmes demeaning himself to ask for advice.'

Sherlock grumbled and rolled his eyes.

'Perhaps we should throw a celebration, I am sure Mycroft would be more than happy to attend if there are pastries,' Sherlock smirked despite being offended. Watson continued on, 'Besides, Molly would be delighted to have guests. Being confined here for an entire month at your beck and call would not have been a pleasant experience,' Watson chuckled as Sherlock pouted.

'Are you quite through insulting me? There is a matter of great importance I need to discuss with you,' Sherlock spat out, his brow furrowed in frustration.

Watson sat on the laboratory stool and raised his eyebrows in silent expectation. Sherlock nodded, pleased that Watson had stopped his mocking and was ready to listen.

'Four weeks ago, I received news that Irene Adler had returned to London. Under the impression she would stay no longer than a fortnight, I am frustrated to discover that she is to stay indefinitely. Thus far, I have managed to avoid any interaction and communication with her,' he began pacing, his words coming faster, 'But according to certain sources, she has recently begun asking after me, specifically of my marriage and happiness. I assume she will be making an appearance here in less than seven days-'

'Wait, Sherlock, wait,' Watson raised his hand to stop his friend's pacing, 'Does Molly know Irene is here?'

A heavy silence fell between them, a guilty look flashing across Sherlock's face.

Watson groaned, 'Oh, bloody hell, Molly doesn't even _know_ about her, does she?'

'My relationship with the Woman was some time ago,' Sherlock defended himself, 'It has no bearing on my marria-'

'Yes, it does!' Watson shouted in frustration, 'God, Sherlock! Molly is bound to find out from one of those gossipmongers about your history with Irene (and for God's sake, stop calling her _the Woman, _that would be a cannonball to your marriage), and when she does, it will destroy whatever progress you've made with Molly. No wife wants to learn about a previously unknown lover, especially one who is a glorified 'woman of the world'.'

Sherlock swallowed deeply. 'Surely, Molly will understand that my relationship with Irene was fleeting and I saw no purpose in sharing my romantic history with her.'

'No, Sherlock,' Watson shook his head sadly, 'she won't understand. She already has enough issues with her sense of esteem, finding out from someone other than you about Irene would destroy whatever confidence she's built up. She will assume you were hiding a mistress and any chance of her trusting you again will be gone.'

The Consulting Detective stared at his friend, his face blank even as his heart felt like it had dropped to the floor.

'Where is Molly, anyway?' Watson asked. 'She has not been far from your side since you were comatose.'

Sherlock's eyes widened almost instantly, fear flashing across his face.

Watson groaned and wiped a hand over his face, 'She's in town, isn't she? Among the gossipmongers.'

Sherlock nodded solemnly.

_Damn._


	25. Unmasking Her Heart

Lost in thought, Molly strolled down the path toward the city stables. She was in a hurry to return to the estate, however she was unsure of what she was going to say to Sherlock. Her thoughts thus occupied, she failed to notice a small group of women approaching her until she nearly ran into them.

'Oh,' she exclaimed, her embarrassed gaze darting between the other three women, 'I beg your pardon, I was not watching where I was going.'

The flawlessly made-up women smirked as their sharp eyes raked over Molly's form. The one in the middle, a beautiful brunette in a striking gown of the latest fashion, lifted her gloved hand in front of Molly.

'Duchess Irene Magnussen of Northumberland,' she sneered. Molly fumbled in surprise, barely managing to kiss her hand and curtsy.

'Lady Molly Holmes, your ladyship,' she murmured, her head still bowed in curtsy. Thus, she missed the widening of Irene's eyes in shock. When she looked up, the duchess's face was a cool mask once more.

'A pleasure, Lady Holmes,' she purred. 'Perhaps the lady should be more aware of her surroundings when walking about unaccompanied.'

Molly flushed in embarrassment and anger. 'I once more beg your pardon.'

'To where were you going, my lady?' the duchess asked, her gaze looking about as if disinterested.

'Merely to visit a friend,' she lied. No sense prolonging this conversation, something about the duchess was not quite right and Molly was eager to depart her company. 'And I fear I am late, so if you will excuse me.'

With a quick bob, she skirted around the women, Irene's gaze following her as she very nearly ran down the path. As soon as she arrived at the stables, she had Bennett hitch the horse to the carriage and they were on their way back to the estate, Molly once more alone with her thoughts.

* * *

Twice now, Molly had walked up to the closed door of the laboratory, her hand poised to knock, but before she could, her courage would fail her. _Coward._

She could hear the rustle of paper as Sherlock was, undoubtedly, writing down his latest findings. Finally, before she could lose her nerve again, she rapped on the door three times. Immediately, the noise inside stopped and Sherlock's loud steps preceded his throwing open the door.

As he was about to yell at whomever had interrupted him (he had assumed it was Watson or George), he glanced down to see his wife, her eyes wide in surprise.

'Molly,' he said. She blinked at the note of surprise in his voice.

'May I speak with you, Sherlock?' she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

Sherlock frowned in confusion, but acquiesced. Molly took a deep breath and made to step forward, but Sherlock's arm shot out and barred her from entering his laboratory. She stumbled back a few steps in shock.

'Not here,' he nearly shouted. Molly's frowned, but she did not think it wise to question him.

'Very well, will you accompany me to the study?'

He nodded and followed her down the stairs, making sure to shut the door to his laboratory firmly behind him.

As they stood in the study, facing each other, Molly began to feel faint from anxiety. She reached out her hand and braced herself against the edge of Sherlock's desk. _I will not have another episode._

Sherlock watched her with a concerned eye, though his face was a cold mask.

The silence stretched as Molly tried to work up the courage to speak. She opened and closed her mouth several times. Sherlock began to fidget, she could hear the tapping of his fingers as he drummed them against his palm behind his back. She turned to his desk, organizing the papers as she hesitated.

The tension in the room grew thick and, at last, Molly could take it no more. Her breathing shallow, she finally turned back to Sherlock and said, 'I am sorry.'

Sherlock frowned. She waited as he thought, chewing her lip in anxiousness.

Several minutes passed, as Sherlock thought. A frown marred his features and he said, 'I confess, I do not know what it is you have done to warrant my forgiveness.'

'Of course you don't,' Molly said, wringing her hands together, 'I, myself, did not know I had done anything until this very day.'

He cocked his head.

Raising her head as tears filled her eyes, she bit her lips. 'I have lied, Sherlock. To you and to myself.'

Taking a shaky breath, she lowered her head and met his confused eyes, 'You have been everything I had ever desired you to be; loving, attentive, honest. And in return, I have given you false hope. I told you that we were making progress; that I was learning to forgive you and trust you once more.'

Stark fear flashed across his face. Molly rushed over to him, placing her hand on his chest.

'Pl-please listen,' her voice wobbled as she stuttered, his heart beating rapidly underneath her palm. 'I did not know at the time that I was lying to you.' She clasped her hands to her chest, 'I suppose on some level I knew I was lying, but I wanted it to be true, I wanted to believe we were making progress.'

'But we weren't,' she whispered, the tears she had been holding back now slipped down her cheeks. 'Because I wanted to punish you.'

Sherlock took several steps back and Molly thought her heart would stop. 'Punish me?'

She swallowed hard, struggling not to turn her eyes from his. 'For everything you'd done to me the first two years of our marriage. I promise you,' she took a step toward him and nearly broke when he took another step back, her voice cracking horribly, 'I d-did not do it pur-purposefully. Until t-today, I did not know I was doing it.'

His eyes filled with some unnamed emotion and he turned his back to her, his fist clenching at his sides.

_Oh, God. Please let me fix this! Let him listen and understand._

'Sh-sherlock, please,' she cleared her throat, willing herself to be stronger, 'I am asking for your forgiveness, though I do not deserve it. For more than ten months, I have let you harbor hope for our m-marriage when deep down I did not believe I would ever trust you again. I l-lied to you. And I will never be able to express how deeply sorry I am.'

'And now?' he asked quietly, his back still to her.

Molly gulped, 'Now? There is nothing I want more than to trust you, to be your wife in every way. You sought to win my heart, but you already have it.' She mentally begged him to face her, but he did not move, 'I do not trust you right now. And I know I was lying when I said it before, but now, right now until the end of our days, I promise to rebuild that trust and restore our marriage.'

The Consulting Detective did not respond. Molly took a step toward him, hoping he would turn around. When he did speak for several minutes, she turned to leave.

'I truly am sorry,' she said quietly as she stood in the doorway, praying he would hear her if he was in his Mind Palace.

'Please, Sherlock. Do not give up on us.'


	26. Blinded to the Truth

The door shut behind Molly, its gentle thud lost to Sherlock as he stared unseeing out the window.

_Forgive Molly? _He was genuinely confused, not remembering the last time someone wronged him and apologized. Delving into his Mind Palace, he brought forth the memories of his interactions with Molly during the past ten months. With perfect clarity, he watched her movements and facial cues, her inflections and shifting gaze.

_'We're making progress, aren't we?' he had asked. She looked at him and smiled, 'Yes, Sherlock. We are.'_

Replaying that moment again and again, he caught the tensing around her eyes. She smiled, but her dimples did not appear. They were always there when she smiled genuinely, a tight-lipped smile, as though she was holding in a great deal of mirth or joy. Her hand had twitched within his, her pulse accelerating against his fingertips. At the time, he had assumed it was in reaction to their closeness. Now, in combination with his other deductions, he realized it was an unconscious tell of her lying.

His heart thudded painfully. The now familiar feeling of despair returning, accompanied with an unfamiliar lump in his throat. _Ah, this must be what hurt feels like. Betrayal, perhaps, as well._

_She lied to me. She hurt me._

The realization seemed to tilt his perception of the world, nothing drastic, but enough that the way he viewed his wife was now with eyes of a wronged man. The woman he loved was no longer just the victim of his cruelty, but a flawed punisher in her own right.

_She did not intend to punish me._

The thought gave him pause. Mentally reviewing her mannerisms and tone from her confession, he deduced she was, indeed, being honest. She truly had not consciously set out to hurt him.

_But she did anyway. I did not know, she could easily have continued this façade of reconciliation. Yet instead she confessed, the very day she realized it herself._

Is that what it is to practice unconditional love? Instead of running from her shame, she stood up to him, confessed her pride and unintentional sin, asking for his forgiveness. Not demanding it. Her trembling voice echoed in his mind, _'I truly am sorry, Sherlock.'_

He closed his eyes and tears he was not aware had formed fell down his face. Trust. It came down to that simple truth for both of them. He had endeavored to win her trust and now she sought to regain his after unwittingly destroying it.

* * *

How long he stood there, fighting the feelings of hurt and betrayal, Sherlock did not know. But his thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the door behind him.

'Leave, George. I do not wish to be disturbed,' he barked, not turning around. When the person did not exit the room, he whirled about and readied his tongue to lash out at the impudent servant intruding. His words were cut off in surprise as he gazed upon the one person he had never wanted to lay eyes on again.

'Dear Sherlock,' Irene Magnussen purred, sashaying across the room, 'is that the way you greet a former lover?' She stepped close to him and trailed a delicate nail up his arm.

Still frozen in shock, Sherlock gaped. _Good God, Sherlock, get rid of her before Molly sees her. _Watson's voice screamed in his head. Her nails lightly scratched his neck and laced themselves in his hair, a shiver coursing through his body at the sensation. Irene smirked in triumph.

Snapping out of his daze, Sherlock stepped away with a growl, 'What are you doing here, Woman?'

Irene cocked an eyebrow, 'I have been visiting acquaintances in London and thought it would be remiss of me to forego meeting with the great Sherlock Holmes,' she sighed, high and false, 'I had hoped you would make your way to town to see me, but alas, I was mistaken.'

'That does not explain your presence here,' he snapped.

'So curt with such a dear friend,' she tsked. Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned his back to her, walking over to a nearby chair and folding himself gracefully into it.

Irene pouted, clearly hoping he would have sat on the settee. She stared in disdain at the chair opposite him. A wicked gleam appeared in her eye and she passed the chair and knelt beside Sherlock, her chest on ample display should he turn his gaze slightly to the right. He shifted, uncomfortable with her so close by. _She needs to leave, now. _He very nearly growled aloud in response to the mental advice from Watson. _I know that, the question is: how?_

'You were never a dear friend, Duchess,' Sherlock said in barely concealed indifference, 'merely a play toy of an adolescent boy trying to understand his entrance into adulthood. You married Charles Magnussen and our… interludes ended. I have moved on to another.'

Fury flashed across her flawlessly made-up face, but she artfully recovered, her seductive smile and heavy-lidded eyes returning in full force.

'Indeed?' She smirked and leaned forward, her hand grazing up his leg, dangerously close to an intimate area he now reserved only for his wife. 'I hear your current 'play toy' is not fulfilling your needs. Perhaps an upgrade to a better model will satisfy your cravings.'

Sherlock leaned forward, his nose mere inches from her face as he grabbed her wandering hand, gripping it tightly as she gasped in pain.

'Were I to desire an upgrade, I assure you, Irene, you would not even be a consideration,' he sneered in disgust, cold wrath in his eyes as he stared into her (what he was sure were) soulless eyes.

Before either could move, the door opened.

'Sherlock, whose carriage-' Whatever Molly was going to say was lost as she trailed off, her eyes widening at the sight before her.

Sherlock turned his head, surprised at her sudden appearance. He took in her expression and realized what the situation appeared to be. With more force than necessary, he released Irene's wrist and stood, Irene following suit.

'Molly,' he said, trying to keep his tone light even as his heart pounded. _Please, this is not what it looks like._

'Lady Holmes,' Irene purred, 'a pleasure to see you again and in the same day. I was sure you informed me you were to visit a friend.'

Molly bristled at the less than subtle accusation, anger making her temporarily regain her nerve, 'I fail to see that it is your concern if my plans are to change.'

Were he not standing in a state of frozen horror, Sherlock would have smirked.

'I merely desired to visit with your husband and had not wanted to intrude on your evening,' Irene plastered a false smile on her face, patronizing and irksome, as she hooked her arm through Sherlock's. Molly swallowed thickly.

'I-I was unaware the two of you were acquainted,' she wasn't sure which of them she was speaking to. Every insecurity and fear she had been fighting raised their weapons, threatening to tear her apart from the inside out.

Irene stepped forward, her hand still intimately holding Sherlock's arm, and smiled, 'Lord Holmes and I are… friends from childhood.'

Molly blinked at the pause, Irene's knowing smirk filling in the obvious, unspoken gap.

_Lovers. Oh, God, they were lovers._

Suddenly, every nightmare she had of Sherlock with another woman returned. And the unknown woman now had a face, a beautiful and flawless face and figure. Sherlock holding Irene close and smiling down at her as they waltzed; him kissing Irene's bright red lips under the mistletoe; Sherlock and Irene standing together, holding their perfect children.

_'I find my pleasure with those of greater beauty and intelligence.' _His words echoed in her heart, as the evidence before her eyes gave proof to the truth of the statement he had so cruelly thrown at her nearly one year ago.

Heartbreak clouded her senses. She was barely aware of leaving until the door slammed behind her as she fled down the hall, Sherlock's shout echoing after her.


	27. The Cry of our Hearts

Overwhelmed by the shock of seeing her husband's former _and absolutely beautiful, _her traitorous mind interjected, lover, Molly struggled to breathe as she leaned against the door to the study, the fears she so recently put aside coming back with renewed vigor. The statuesque woman with the impeccable figure and flawless features had once been intimately involved with Sherlock. Molly looked down at her shaking hands, trying to control the flood of emotions: shock, despair, envy working to tear down her recently acquired self-confidence. Her resolve to trust Sherlock was on extremely shaky ground.

_Is she here to seduce him? After what I just confessed to him, she has a pretty good chance. Not to mention, she is beautiful and he has already been intimate with her. _

A jolt of pain shot to her heart at the thought. Would Sherlock throw her away to return to his former love?

The traitorous thought seemed to echo in her mind, spreading doubt and fear like a plague.

Standing to leave, Molly's vision blurred as hot tears coursed down her cheeks. Her breathing labored, she stumbled over to the patio doors, fumbling with the latches. Just as she managed to get them open, a deep baritone sounded from the hallway door.

'Why do you always run from me?'

* * *

Watching as his pale wife fled the drawing room, Sherlock turned back to the Woman, her hand sensually rubbing his leg. His face was clear of emotion, but an undercurrent of cold wrath froze her caresses as he nearly hissed, 'Leave.'

She tried to read his meaning, wondering if he was playing some game with her. Seeing no indication on his face or his cold eyes, she gaped in disbelief.

'Surely that wisp of a girl cannot interest you more than a woman such as myself,' she scoffed.

He gripped her wrist, his iron hold nearly crushing as he forcefully removed her hand from his leg. She winced in pain, surprised at his actions. His face remained impassive, but his eyes were suddenly filled with, what she could only describe as blue fire, burning through her.

'That _woman _is my wife, and she is far more enthralling to me than you have ever been or could dare dream to be,' he violently shoved her hand away, nearly sending her backwards.

They both stood to their feet, facing each other in anger. Refusing to lose, Irene turned her anger into a challenge, all the more determined to seduce Sherlock. She stepped close to him, her chest brushing his, and trailed her hands lightly up his chest to his shoulders. She stood on her tiptoes and whispered seductively into his ear, 'What can a mouse like her offer you that I cannot?' To prove her point, she sensually pressed her lower body into his.

Confident she had regained control, she smirked as Sherlock's hands reached up to grip her arms. Suddenly, his hold tightened and she gasped in pain.

'Her heart. And even if you possessed one, I would not flatter myself interested in obtaining it. Now, kindly remove yourself from my person, vile woman,' he growled. Irene wrenched herself from his iron grip and stumbled back, rubbing the tender sores he left.

The battle lost, she knew it was time to retreat. Determined to leave with some of her dignity, she held herself high and sneered down her nose at him, 'Enjoy your little mouse while you can, Sherlock Holmes. For when you inevitably come to your senses, I will not return to _take her place,_' she spat.

Sweeping grandly from the room, Irene Adler took her leave of Bakersfield, taking comfort in the knowledge that she had left ruin in her wake.

Sherlock watched her go with relief. While her carriage rattled down the path, he immediately strode over to the study, slipping inside quietly. He looked around for Molly, catching her about to leave to the terrace. Her back was to him, but he could see the tension in her stance.

_Stop her. _'Why do you always run from me?' he said, halting Molly in her tracks. She released the handle and slowly turned around, keeping her face to the ground.

Sherlock waited for her to speak, to acknowledge that she was listening, but her silence grew. Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair, knowing that this conversation, long overdue, would not be easy. 'I should have told you about Irene. I had not considered that she would return to my life in any way, her being married and living in another city entirely.' He took a few steps forward, 'I understand now that in omitting that information, I have hurt you. Forgive me.'

His heart dropped as he heard Molly sniffle. He rushed over to her, grabbing her wrist as she tried to turn and flee out the door. 'Molly,' he held tight as she tried to get her hand free, 'stop running from me.'

Molly struggled against the desire for a good, long cry. Taking a shaky breath, she stopped fighting his hold and wiped her tears with her free hand. Sherlock watched as she seemed to gather her thoughts and regain control.

Without turning to him, she closed her eyes and whispered, 'Do you love her?'

'No,' Sherlock replied immediately, 'I never have. Though I was intimate with her, I was a boy of 17 years. It was flattering for a beautiful woman of 19 to look on me with interest.' He did not fail to notice the clenching of her fist when he called Irene 'beautiful'. _Oh, my Molly. _'Her beauty, though, was all she had. As heartless as I claimed to be, she used her seductions to gain riches and fame, from married and unmarried men alike. We ended our arrangement after less than a year, when she became engaged to a Duke, old and with wealth enough to rival the King.'

Molly nodded, still refusing to look up at him. Her heart still pounded in fear, wondering if he was disappointed that Molly's beauty could not even compare with Irene's. Suddenly, a gentle hand cupped her chin, turning her face around. Opening her eyes, Molly immediately was lost in Sherlock's gaze. Still holding her wrist, his other hand caressed her cheek gently, wiping away the evidence of her tears.

'Why do you continue to doubt that you are beautiful to me?' He seemed genuinely confused. 'Beauty is a construct of our society, based upon what are assuredly misconstrued ideas of perfection. What I consider beautiful is perhaps far different from others' perception.'

He laced his fingers with hers, staring intently into her eyes, as he tried to persuade her he was in earnest, 'I am not accustomed to the social niceties of my peers, and in my disdain I have done untold damage to the manner in which you see yourself, my wife. I had thought the progress in our marriage lately had begun to open your eyes to how much I truly desire not only your mind, but your body.'

Molly bit her lip, flushing under his intense gaze and the gentle brush of his thumb across her knuckles, sending shivers up her arm. She could feel his body heat and her heart pounded frantically. Her mind was divided, two sides fighting for victory. One wanted to concede defeat to Sherlock's maneuvers and the other wanted to slap him for having that woman so intimately near to him.

Unable to break eye contact, Molly felt her resolve weaken. The months following Christmas marked the mending of their relationship and the beginning of something new, something real. But fear had kept her from capitulating to his seductions of her heart and body.

As they stood there, her defenses started to cave. All fell, but one. The one that jealously guarded her trust, the one she had not known, until that very day, was still standing strong.

_I have to know, _she thought. Taking a deep breath, she gathered strength to not look away and whispered, 'Are you certain that you want _me_?'

Sherlock stared at her profile. He could see her trembling lips, the rivulets of tears coursing down her cheeks, the fear and uncertainty in her stance. She honestly thought that there was a chance he would abandon her for that heartless prostitute. His heart very nearly broke at the thought.

_This is why sentiment is damning. The pain and frustrations it dregs up are quite exhausting, mentally and physically. _He cocked his head, observing his wife and filtering his own emotions.

_Then again, would I want to return to my former position on sentiment, on love? I was unhindered in my work, yes. But I was without her. _

_She is my equal in nearly every way, and what she lacks in intelligence, I compensate for. And in return she teaches me to understand the emotions I have buried for so long; love, joy, forgiveness. _

He blinked. Forgiveness. _I am still hurt by her unwitting deception, but I am no longer feeling betrayed nor angry. _He looked down at the woman before him, his heart expanding with a deeper sense of love than he had ever felt before and contentment healing the damage her lies caused.

_Without her, I would not understand what it is to forgive, or to love. _

He let go of one of her hands, tilting her chin higher. Tears continued to fall from her fearful eyes.

He pressed his lips to her brow, 'I will always want you,'

He kissed her tear-stained cheek, 'I will always forgive you,'

His eyes locked with hers, his deep baritone sent a shiver through her as his breath caressed her mouth, 'and I will always _choose_ you.'

Her eyes widened.

The last defense dropped, obliterated by his words, as her heart shook loose its shackles and fully embraced his forgiveness. The bridge between her mind and heart closed, finally of one accord. _To love him is to forgive him. To forgive him is to trust him. _The images of him with another woman faded like the mist and in an instant, her hands were grasping his neck and she closed the small distance between their lips.

Surprised by her fervor, Sherlock froze in shock for all of three seconds, before wrapping his arms around her and crushing her in his embrace. She let out a squeak in surprise, giggling against his mouth. He smiled in response.

Their hearts and thoughts were of like minds, finally beating in harmony, as though the final piece of themselves was locked in place, the feeling of wholeness overwhelming them with joy.

All too soon, they parted. Sherlock braced his forehead against hers, closing his eyes and sighing contently.

Molly stared up at him, watching the peace and relief wash over his usually stoic features. Her hands still around him, she gently caressed the curls at the nape of his neck. He shivered in response and Molly giggled.

'I love you,' she whispered happily.

His eyes snapped open and he leaned his head back. Molly looked up at him in confusion, opening her mouth to speak when he swooped down again and captured her words in a desperate, passionate kiss.

She moaned when he pulled back, her hands trying to tug his head back down. He chuckled at her, his deep baritone vibrating through her body.

'I have been waiting for you to say that in gladness since this ordeal began,' he admitted, resting his chin atop her head as he pulled her close.

Molly hummed in response, twining her fingers through his curls. Perfectly content, time faded away as the two embraced.

'So, dear husband,' Molly leaned back after a bit, resting her chin on his cravat as Sherlock looked down at her, his stormy eyes filled with love, 'where do we go from here?'

Brushing a lock of hair from her face, he smiled, 'Wherever you desire, dearest wife.'

* * *

The path to forgiveness was filled with mistakes and pain, misunderstandings and heartbreak. But when they walked the path together, they realized that at the end, their hearts were, not only whole, but woven together, stitched with trust and devotion.

So long as they stood beside one another, their bond would not be torn by any earthly force.

But their story does not end there.


	28. The Road We Now Walk

'William Sherlock Scott Holmes!'

Grimacing at the use of his full name, Sherlock stopped walking and turned to face the approaching thunder of Doctor Watson. He said nothing, merely quirked an eyebrow at the red-faced, panting man as he ran to catch up.

'Thanks a bloody lot, you utter nitwit,' Watson raged when he was finally within hitting distance of the Consulting Detective. 'I was still in that house when the Inspectors came through! I had to explain my way through three of them before Lestrade was able to pull me out and let me go!'

Sherlock smirked.

'No. No!' Watson yelled, pointing a shaking finger in the taller man's face, his eyes shooting daggers, 'It is not funny,' Sherlock tilted his head and opened his mouth to refute the statement, but Watson quickly pressed on, 'No, it's not. I spent an hour being interrogated about my presence in a brothel, a brothel, Holmes!'

'I do not carry the blame for that. You should have followed me out when the Inspectors first arrived,' Sherlock shrugged.

Breathing heavily, Watson hissed, 'You went out through the bloody window, it was too high for me to climb myself. And you did not turn back to assist me, you complete-'

'Then there is no one to blame but yourself,' Sherlock interrupted passively, his gaze roving over the darkening street. Stores were closing, the sun was beginning to set, and the street was full of Scotland Yard Inspectors, their suspects, and various busybodies who were too intrigued with the unfolding drama to notice the two friends in the distance.

Clenching his jaw to prevent himself from spewing forth any more indecent language, Watson resisted the urge to punch the smug man in his prominent nose.

'Besides, you have assisted in the unraveling of a prostitute ring that has been in business for decades. You should feel proud of yourself, even though you really did not do anything.'

'What?! If it wasn't for me, we would not have caught Nicholas' lie about his alibi, thus bringing us to follow him and discover the location of the brothel.' By now, an indignant Watson was three seconds away from flattening the man before him, justifiably, of course.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, still refusing to look at Watson, 'Indeed. However, I was already aware of the brothel's location and Nicholas' role as a client.'

'No, you weren't,' Watson shook his head.

'Yes, my dear Watson, I was.' Sherlock smiled and looked at the shorter man, 'The location was easily deduced by the obviously false storefront and its 'regular' clientele. The gossipmongers here are much more resourceful than those in London. Also, Nicholas is a terrible liar and his clothes hadn't been washed since his last visit; he positively reeked of prostitutes and sin.'

'Then why were we undercover if you had known all that from the beginning?'

'Actually, not until the third day, when we spoke with the neighbors. But I thought you needed the practice.'

Watson gaped and a heavy silence fell between them. Fury and disbelief rising, he whispered threateningly, 'I have a wife and baby on the way at home, who have been waiting three weeks for my return. And you solved this two weeks ago?!'

Before Sherlock could respond, his head was thrown to the side, pain splitting his temple. When his eyes focused once more, Watson was shaking with anger, rubbing his tender knuckles.

'Wanker,' he hissed.

Sherlock grimaced in pain and a bit of regret, 'Not good?'

'Oh, exceedingly not good.'

Deciding against saying anything more, Sherlock turned and led the way to the stables, ready to put the case behind them and return to London. And to Molly.

Within the hour, the men had hitched their horses and were beginning the hour long trek back home. The sun was starting to hit the horizon before Watson broke the silence.

'Why did it take three weeks, if you already had everything you needed?'

Sherlock turned his head, bobbing with the rocking of the carriage, 'To be honest, the evidence I uncovered was not enough. It may have been sufficient for a warrant, but the organization was very well-connected and someone in Scotland Yard might have tipped them off before the raid. By going undercover as potential clients, we were able to uncover the crooked Inspectors and foil the entire organization without risking the case's failure.'

Watson digested this information and began to understand his friend's approach. Before he could comment, Sherlock turned his head forward and smirked, 'Besides, you are terribly unpracticed in deception. I surmised that an exercise in undercover work would be beneficial to you.'

'Git,' Watson snapped, good-naturedly. 'Where were you, anyway? I was in there for an hour after you left. What were you doing?'

Sherlock merely smiled, leaving a confused and aggravated Watson to wonder.

They rode in silence the rest of the way, Watson bidding a fond, exasperated farewell to Sherlock before returning to North Gower Street and the family he missed so dearly.

The sun was nearly set as Sherlock arrived at Bakersfield. He passed the horse and carriage off to Bennett and strode through the front doors. Three weeks. He had been gone three weeks and every moment had felt excruciatingly long. Oh, when there was progress in the case, he was fine. But it was during the calm, when nothing was happening, that the absence of his wife covered him, stifling and oppressive. Her warmth was not beside him when he woke up, her spectacles were not laid haphazardly over his notes, her laughter did not follow him from room to room.

Quickly and silently, he passed his coat to George. Smoothing his waistcoat and cravat, he scanned the doorways, deducing which room Molly was currently occupying. His gaze narrowed in on the thin strip of light coming from the study. Smiling, he crept silently over to the closed door. With his back to the door, he ever so slowly released the latch. Pausing, he listened. Nothing. Gently, he pressed open the door. Through the small gap he'd created, Sherlock could see a pair of feet dangling off the edge of his chair, the rest of her hidden by the back of the chair.

With practiced ease, he gracefully slid into the room, unnoticed by the woman absorbed in her book. In four steps he was behind her, careful not to cast a shadow upon her from the oil lamp on a nearby table. He drank in the sight of his wife, her rich brown hair unbound and his dressing gown wrapped loosely around her, realizing that three weeks was much too long to be parted from her.

* * *

With a sigh, Molly turned the page of the book Sherlock had gifted her with the Christmas before. She had already read it, but somehow it made her feel closer to Sherlock.

It had been three weeks since he had left to go on a case with Doctor Watson and Molly missed him something awful. It had been six months since they reconciled and nearly four since they'd become fully man and wife. She blushed at the remembrance of their first night. It was beautiful, she had never felt so loved. And nearly every night since, they had spent together. She was accustomed to waking up beside him, his arm wrapped possessively around her and her face buried in the curve of his neck. But now three weeks had passed and her bed was empty of affection and warmth, even his scent was fading from the pillows.

She turned the page again, not actually reading the words. So lost in her thoughts, she didn't feel his presence until a deep, familiar voice spoke from behind her:

'Surely you could not have read those pages in so short a span of time?'

Molly shrieked in surprise and fumbled about, trying to find the face to put with the voice.

Suddenly, two arms trapped her, planted on either side of her on the chair. Tilting her head up, she was greeted with the upside-down, grinning face of her husband. She smiled in response, her heart slowing down from its sudden burst of adrenaline.

'Hello, my love,' she greeted.

He leaned down and pecked her lips. She giggled at being kissed upside down and Sherlock scowled. He quickly moved around the chair and picked her up. Molly squeaked in surprise and latched her arms around his neck as he slid into the spot she had vacated and settled her on his lap.

Molly happily threaded her fingers through the hair at his neck and pulled him close for a proper snog, reminding him of what he had been missing. When they were both breathless, Sherlock pulled back and smiled at her in wonder.

'If that is what I am to come home to after a prolonged absence, perhaps I should leave more often.'

Molly scowled, 'Don't you dare. I could not bear it if you were parted from me again. Promise me you will not leave again for a while?' She pouted, 'I have missed you too much.'

Nuzzling her neck, Sherlock agreed, 'I have missed you, as well. Three weeks is much too long.'

As the sun set, Sherlock held Molly close and began to tell her about the case. When he got to the part about leaving Watson behind, she whacked his arm as he laughed.

'Sherlock Holmes, what an awful thing to do!'

Still finding the memory humorous, Sherlock endeavored to appear remorseful, 'I did apologize.'

Molly quirked an eyebrow in disbelief, 'Fibbing, husband.'

'Fine,' he huffed, 'I _will _apologize. Happy?'

His reward was a grateful kiss. He groaned when she pulled away, a frown on her face.

'What is it?' he inquired.

'Well, you said Watson was in there for an hour. But where were _you_? Gregory and his men were busy rounding everyone up, something you are loathe to do,' Sherlock nodded in agreement, pride shining in his eyes at his wife's deductions, 'so what were you doing, instead of helping your friend?'

'Brilliant, as always, my love,' he kissed her nose in admiration. Shifting slightly, he reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and pulled out a small pouch, handing it to his wife. 'I was shopping.'

'What is this?' She opened the small bag and emptied it into her palm. She gasped as a gold ring fell out. Twin rubies flanked a shiny pearl, gold latticework detailing the band. She turned her teary gaze to Sherlock in surprise.

'I never gave you a betrothal ring and your wedding band is simple and plain,' Sherlock explained, trying to sound business-like, but Molly could see the blush rising in his cheeks and the uncertainty in his eyes. 'I had intended to have you pick out something yourself, but I was told by many people,' his noise twitched in annoyance, 'that it would be far more romantic were I to find one myself.'

Molly swallowed thickly, knowing that doing so must have taken Sherlock very far out of his comfort zone. In flirting and seduction he had become quite proficient and she blushed at the memories. But romantic gestures were few and far between with the Consulting Detective.

'It may be nearly four years late, but,' he took the ring from her and brought her hand to his lips, kissing her palm reverently, his eyes never leaving hers, 'Molly Holmes, will you do me the honor of being my wife?'

With a joyful sob, Molly crashed her lips against his, kissing him breathless. After several passionate minutes, she pressed her head into his shoulder, murmuring a chorus of 'yes, of course.'

Sherlock pulled off her wedding band and slipped the perfectly sized betrothal ring onto her finger, replacing the wedding band on top of it. The two rings shone in the flickering light as Molly admired them from Sherlock's embrace. Her smile threatened to split her face.

'I love you, my Sherlock,' she whispered, pecking his jawline with loving kisses. He chuckled and tightened his hold on her waist. 'I wish I had something to give to you, as well.'

He kissed the crown of her head, closing his eyes as his lips lingered. Oh, how he had missed her. 'I am sure there is an arrangement we can make,' he whispered huskily.

Molly giggled and kissed him again. 'Perhaps. But I was thinking about something tangible, my dear.'

'So was I,' he growled, the hand he had on her waist rubbing circles into her skin. A shiver ran through her and he smiled in manly pride. Something about seeing her in his dressing gown was adding an unexpected measure of desire to the evening.

She giggled again, her hands playing with his hair. 'Incorrigible,' she accused. 'You fully understand what I meant. I want to give you a gift, too.'

'What for? I have everything I need and I am not one to desire unnecessary frivolities. Though I am growing fond of your way of showing your appreciation for my romantic overtures,' he grinned wickedly.

'I have married a beast,' Molly cried in mock despair, her ring-laden hand flying to her chest in dramatic flair.

'Mmm, indeed,' Sherlock growled as he pulled her close and nuzzled her neck.

'Is there nothing you can think of?' she asked, sounding hesitant.

Sherlock continued placing kisses along her neck, 'Nope.'

'How about a baby?'

He froze. He could feel Molly frantic heartbeat against his cheek, sense the sudden tension in her body. Slowly, he pulled back and stared into her fear-filled eyes.

'Surprise,' she whispered, smiling uncertainly.

'You're…' he croaked. 'We… a baby?'

Molly nodded, 'About a month ago I began feeling a bit strange. I know the physical signs of expectancy from speaking with Charlotte and Mary. I was not absolutely sure until the week you left.' She smiled ruefully, 'For three weeks, there has not been a morning when I have not acquainted myself intimately with a bedpan.'

Sherlock stared at her, unblinking.

'Sherlock?'

'Sherlock!'

When he did not respond, Molly began to grow upset. _What if he doesn't want a child? _Tears filled her eyes and she swung her legs to the floor. Before she could stand, Sherlock's arms suddenly tightened around her.

A few tears escaped as she turned her head back to look at him. His eyes slowly focused on her, his stunned face breaking into a smile. His eyes crinkled in joy and he lurched forward, crashing his lips to hers. Surprised and relieved, Molly quickly shifted in his lap, settling back into his embrace as he very nearly snogged the life from her.

'A baby,' he whispered when they stopped to breathe, 'We're having a baby.' His face was filled with wonder and he placed a reverent hand on her still-flat abdomen.

'A little of you, a little of me,' Molly leaned her head against his shoulder and placed her hand on his.

He chuckled, 'I pray the child is more you than me.'

Molly tilted her head to look at him. Even though he had laughed, she could see the uncertainty in his expression, the fear that his child would take after him. Lifting her hand to caress his cheek, she turned his head to her.

'Well, I pray that our child has your brilliance, your capacity for love, your hair, definitely your eyes, and, if it's a boy, your completely riveting voice,' she pressed a kiss to his chin and prayed he would not think of himself so negatively.

He looked down at the woman he loved and furrowed his brow, 'And then what, my dear, is left for you to give our baby?'

'You're the detective. Isn't it obvious?'

He quirked an eyebrow. 'No.'

Molly smirked, 'My nose.'

In an instant, she was off his lap and running for the door, a roaring Sherlock on her heels. Before she could reach the safety of the hallway, Sherlock had grabbed her and hauled her up against his chest. Laughing, she half-heartedly tried to break free, her feet kicking in the air.

Laughing, he set her back down and she turned around, his arms wrapping around her back and hers finding their familiar place around his neck. She tried to hide her laughter, her dimples appearing and eyes shining.

'Are you truly happy about the baby?' she asked, still uncertain.

He brushed her hair over her shoulder and leaned down to kiss her gently. 'Of course. Besides,' he raised his eyebrows, 'it will be interesting to observe the growth of a human. Lestrade and Watson were both adamant about not bringing my godchildren to crime scenes or observing the _mmphf_-'

Whatever he had been about to say was cut off as Molly slapped a hand over his mouth. 'William Sherlock Scott Holmes,' his eyes widened, 'if you even _think_ about bringing our child along on a case, I will personally and thoroughly destroy every piece of equipment in your laboratory. And you will be banned from any… intimacy for a six-week penance.'

He blinked, surprised by the sudden display of motherly protection. Her eyes blazed with a fire he had never before seen. He barely acknowledged the foiling of his plans as the desire to be with his wife increased tenfold. With a growl, he swept her into his arms and hastened to their bedroom. Molly gasped as her feet left the floor, her arms immediately tightening around Sherlock's neck.

'Sherlock, what are you doing?' She managed to say as he strode up the stairs.

'What I am doing, wife,' he pronounced as he entered their bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him, 'is reminding myself of what I'd be missing if I disobeyed that order.'

Molly laughed at his antics and pulled his head down to passionately kiss her ridiculous husband. He lowered her to the bed, still attached at the lips. Pulling back after a moment, he took in the sight of his beautiful wife, her lips swollen from his attentions, her hair splayed out beneath her, its rich auburn reflecting the gentle fire from across the room.

Smiling, Molly cupped his cheeks and stared up into her husband's gorgeous eyes, his hair mussed from her fingers. She lifted her face close to his and whispered, 'Welcome home, Sherlock,' before he captured her lips once more.


	29. Wandering Down the Road of Life

**Four Years Later**

The gently tinkling of cups and saucers were lost in the laughter of the three women. Seated in the drawing room, Molly Holmes smiled with fond affection at her dear friends. Next to her, Charlotte Lestrade glowed with the pride of a recent mother, her newborn daughter, Elizabeth, cradled in her arms. A heavily expectant Mary Watson was currently ensconced in a padded chair, throw pillows hugging her growing body.

'You are to deliver soon, is that right?' Charlotte asked Mary, her arms gently bouncing a gurgling Elizabeth.

Mary groaned and chuckled as she shifted slightly, 'My dear husband believes his daughter will make an appearance by the end of the week. I, however, believe _my son _will arrive the following week.'

Molly laughed, 'Is he still adamant that you are carrying a girl?'

The doctor's wife rolled her eyes and sighed heavily, 'He claims that the way I'm carrying the baby indicates a female. I have told him many times, 'I am carrying this baby the only way I know how. I believed you the first time, and lo and behold, our Isabelle was actually an Isaac. So, forgive me if I doubt your powers of deduction.''

Charlotte and Molly roared with laughter, Elizabeth adding her innocent giggles to their mirth. Once they had calmed down, Molly noticed the hour.

'My goodness, it is nearly suppertime,' she exclaimed, rising from her seat. 'Perhaps we should discover where our husbands have gone and have them return to the house to eat.'

The three of them, and the baby, made their way to the terrace. The crisp, London wind hinted at autumn as Molly gazed across the yard, searching for a familiar, tall figure.

'There they are,' Charlotte declared. Molly turned her head and followed Charlotte's line of sight to see their husbands running about. Laughing, Molly walked down the steps and into the middle of what appeared to be a game of cat-and-mouse.

'Aunt Molly!' Four-year-old Isaac Watson shouted from behind a laughing Gregory. 'The Cat is behind you!' John was currently pretending to hide behind Thomas Lestrade, the five-year-old bravely defending him.

Molly froze as she saw four pairs of eyes widen at something behind her. She spun around quickly and found herself nose-to-nose with familiar green-blue eyes. A hand reached out and bopped her on the nose.

'You the Cat, Mummy,' Georgina Holmes giggled, her curly black locks ruffled and her dress smudged with dirt.

Molly playfully kissed her daughter's cheek. She looked behind Georgina's mysteriously suspended body and saw her husband's smug smile.

'You hafta catch us, Mummy.'

With a small smile, Molly bopped Georgina on her nose, resulting in a flood of giggles from the three-year-old, 'Perhaps another time, my dear. Because it is past time you were washed up for supper.'

A chorus of 'awws' echoed behind her. She laughed as she heard Gregory's and John's groans of disappointment as well. Sherlock lowered Georgina to the ground and she immediately raced over to Thomas. The five-year-old immediately beamed happily as a smitten Georgina grabbed his hand and began dragging him toward the house. Gregory trailed behind them, smirking.

Molly laughter at her daughter's antics was cut short as a pair of strong arms wrapped possessively around her waist. She sighed happily and snuggled into the warmth of her husband's embrace, his face nestling into the curve of her neck.

'You do realize they will most likely marry,' she nodded in the direction of the children.

Sherlock growled in response, tightening his arms around her middle.

Molly turned her head to look up at her husband's scowling face. 'She will marry some man someday, my love. It may be Thomas. It may even be Isaac.'

If possible, Sherlock's scowl deepened. Molly shook her head and smiled. _Ever the protective father. _

When Georgina was born, Sherlock had been reduced to a shaking mess of a man, afraid to even hold her. But the moment her delicate hand wrapped around his finger, she wrapped herself around his heart. And every time he heard his daughter say, 'I love you' another chord wrapped around his heart. There was nothing he would not do for his daughter. Killing a boy who broke her heart would be a pleasure.

'We shall see,' he replied darkly, a wicked half-smile on his face.

Molly rolled her eyes when she realized her husband's thoughts, 'You would be of a different mind if it were your own son pursuing a woman. So, no killing.' He opened his mouth, but she shot him down with a look, 'or maiming.'

Pouting, he merely grumbled incoherently into her neck. The others had reached the terrace by now and were heading inside to clean up. Molly pulled out of Sherlock's embrace, his mumbled disapproval making her smile. Even still, his attentions made her heart race. Lacing her fingers through his, she let him lead her up the slope.

'Besides, that is years from now, there is no sense worrying about such things now. So much shall happen before Georgina is even of marrying age.'

Sherlock nodded solemnly, 'Indeed. You are due _well_ before that. June, I would estimate. I suspect our plans to visit Mycroft and Anthea in Brixton this May will be-'

His words were broken off as Molly stopped suddenly, her hand falling from his. He turned back to ask her why she halted when her face struck fear into his heart. Her eyes wide and cheeks completely white, she swayed on the spot. He lunged forward and caught her as she was about to collapse in shock. She took a few deep breaths before raising her wide brown eyes to his.

'A-a baby?' she whispered, her trembling hands trailing up to his shoulders.

Sherlock brushed her hair from her face, realizing what he had missed. 'I thought you knew,' he whispered regretfully. 'I was waiting for you to surprise me, but I let it slip out.'

'A baby,' Molly repeated, trying to get her head around the idea. They had tried for years after Georgina was born, but had never conceived. In her reluctance to get her hopes up, she had missed the signs, putting down her recent nausea to a passing illness and the tenderness of her breasts to… she blushed. Well, now she knew.

Sherlock watched her tentatively. A smile began to break her shocked face, her eyes crinkling with tearful joy. Suddenly, the reality of it hit her and she threw her arms around Sherlock and kissed him soundly. He eagerly returned the kiss, latching his arms around her waist and lifting her from the ground entirely.

'Finally,' she murmured against his lips.

Several minutes of joyful affection passed before they were brusquely interrupted by an amused Watson shouting from the terrace, 'Oi, you two. The children are not going to wait forever to eat, and quite frankly, neither are your guests.'

Laughing, Molly pulled away from Sherlock. He growled and leaned down to capture her lips once more. She pecked him lightly and grabbed his hand to again walk up the slope. A joyful melody played in her heart as she placed a hand over her stomach, knowing it would soon show evidence of another life. Sherlock's thumb grazed across her knuckles and she leaned into his arm.

She was completely and utterly content.

And in her happiness, she couldn't resist teasing her husband once more.

'Perhaps we shall be blessed with another girl,' she chuckled, 'so you shall have both Isaac Watson and Thomas Lestrade as sons-in-law.'

Her laughter at his indignant sputtering was quickly cut off by his mouth as he crushed her to him.

'Wife,' he growled against her lips, 'you are a devious woman.'

Molly ran her fingers through his hair, groaning as he nibbled her lower lip.

Sherlock pulled back and dragged her into the house. 'Why must you invite these people over? It is most inconvenient,' his voice husky with desire. Before he could kiss her again, Georgina raced into the room, clean and dressed for supper.

'Mummy, Father, supper!' She exclaimed, reaching up to grab their hands and drag them to the other room. Molly laughed at her daughter's antics and obediently followed along. A little put out that the moment had been broken, Sherlock trailed along, pouting.

But when Georgina looked up at him and smiled, his heart nearly burst as he once more realized what he almost lost due to pride and foolishness. In a rush of affection, he swooped down and grabbed his daughter, hauling her up against his side with a kiss to her cheek. With his other arm, he wrapped Molly close and gave her a chaste, yet loving kiss. Looking between the two loves of his life, soon-to-be three, he smiled broadly.

_This love, this sentiment, is what makes life worth living. _


End file.
